Shadowkin
by MrsRJLupin
Summary: Aedre has been surviving as a companion to the King of the Picts' son, having escaped from Bebbanburg and saving the boy's life. Always knowing he had a famous warrior brother, she's heartbroken that he never came back for her. When she is threatened she decides to get herself to Wessex to find him. Based on the Saxon Stories by Bernard Cornwell and Last Kingdom TV Series
1. Osthryth

1.  
The smoke was hot, thick. It burned her throat, coiled into her lungs. Osthryth stumbled coughing into the building that was more flame than wood. She tried to call for the woman who was trapped, but Thyra Ragnarsdottir's name died in her throat. In her coughing fit, Osthryth groped for a surface her hand catching a table. On it, she dislodged a bowl of water, which crashed onto the wooden planks of the house floor.  
A whimper came up through them. Osthryth gasped, more smoke filling her lungs. She groped on the floor, lying close to it. A cloth had soaked into the water amd she pulled ut to her mouth, her airways clearing suddenly.

A banging came from the floor where the whimper had come from. Outside, shouting. Osthryth crawled along to the floor, groping with the other hand as the damp cloth filtered the intensifying smoke.

Another breath and a crumble ahead as the front of the house took the flame. The heat was intense; it was like looking at a thousand suns.

A body, itself fuelling the fire caught Osthryth's foot and she stumbled, before pushing it away with her hands, lowering the damp cloth from her mouth. And that's when she saw it - the trapdoor, and the whimper was coming underneath.

When she thought she could stand it no longer Osthryth's hand caught a latch. Scrabbling, she pulled it open, the smoke curling and coiling around the square hole. The flame roared before her as the consumed wood crackled away. An out-draught of air shot into the house of Father Beocca. Osthryth plunged forward.

Siezing the body of Uhtred's adopted sister she pulled Thyra up through the hatch under which she had been trapped. Her head lolled back but Osthryth pulled her to her shoulder. The charred body of the dead man, whoever he was, fell in as Osthryth stepped through the remains of the floorboards.

Ahead of her, the door was a burning archway, the wood crackling around it making it larger and smokier.

Osthryth took her chance. With the might of her body she leapt to it, Thyra's tiny frame a negligible burden on her shoulder.

In the street feet running, feet pounding, voices calling, and calling.

Staggering, Osthryth stumbled into the street, Thyra falling beside her. The shouts were getting louder as the thatch lit up, white-hot peaks of flame stretched for the midnight-blue sky.

She swallowed and shouldered the woman again, pressing down a narrow passage into Aldgate. No Christian would help her now, Osthryth knew. But there was someone.

Ula would help. She had not seen the Britonnic healer for several months, not since she had paid for treatment in hackgold that Osthryth had stolen from her brother, no doubt stolen from the North Cymric in the first place.

Down Aldgate, through the passage near Gaolgate and into the slums of Micklegate. Mud-dark children slunk against the wall as Osthryth's voice broke over the words "Move!" and "Now!"

Everyone outside the law of Wessex came to Ula at one time or another. Women needing contraceptive herbs; pagans or Britons still adhering to their old religions who needed a poultice or medicine of jackdaw feathers and sacrificial blood. Or a scrying to put their souls at ease. At an unknown age, black hair braided with malachite beads and jet stones marked with what looked very much like rune-scratches to the trained eye, Ula had served these people right under the noses of the very Christian Wessex kings. When the Danes were at their height she was close to being turned over for witchcraft. But there were enough people who owed her their lives in Winchester to make her invisible.

Ula was leaning on a broom as Osthryth strode into her shop, permitted only because the woman was discreet and knew how to keep the church away.

"Help her!" Osrthyth demanded, unfolding the copper-headed Danishwoman onto the horsehair mattress. Ula raised an eye. Then, her fave became a mask of concern.

"I know her. She came for rune-sticks six months ago. She is married to a Christian priest."

"She was very nearly burned alive at her home," Osthryth snarled. I followed her out of the King's wake. She has breathed a good deal of smoke," Osthryth added.

"Thyra Ragnarsdottir," Ula nodded, but then alarm filled her face when Thyra screamed, the power behind it nullified by the burns on the inside of her throat.

"And how much will you pay this time, for this woman, and for you - " Ula began, slyly, picking at Osthryth's burned leather. But then the groan from Thyra caused her to jerk back her head.

"Pull the curtain, quickly!" Ula demanded, the candle-smoke trailing as she pinched out the flame." Osthryth did so, then stalked over to her, hands on hips.

"What is the matter with her?" But Ula did not answer. Instead, she tried to get Thyra, her singed skin on her face and neck crinkling as she did so.

"No, she is too weak to lift. Christian," Ula shot at her, "you must tilt her forward while I help her deliver."

Half an hour later, and Osthryth was pacing on the straw-and-dung- strewn alleyway.

"Come!" Ula shouted. Osthryth pulled back the curtain. Blinking, Osthryth strode in. She had been banished for her Christianity; Ula would empty Thyra of her burden the pagan way and somehow that involved Osthryth not being there.

A mewling came from a sun-bleached cloth; a tiny hand groped for the air.

"Take her," Ula panted, the effort of this little child's entry to the world sapping energy from her muscles and sinews and ligaments.

"Take her!" the healer demanded, holding her out to Osthryth. "It has barely been six months. I took life from you; I am giving it back."

Osthryth looked between the baby and Thyra.

"She used what strength she had left to bear her," Ula added, sorrow in her voice. She looked slowly over to Thyra and lowered her eyes. Osthryth looked too. Sonehow the woman, Father Beocca's pagan wife, looked at peace, nothing at all like she had been, screaming in terror at the fate that was to befall her.

"Take the child!" Ula insisted. "If you don't feed her now she will surely die like her mother." Ula held out the bundle.

"There will be no charge, Osthryth Lackland. I will send this good Dane on to Valhalla; you will raise her daughter."

Osthryth began to laugh. Take a child? A baby? She had no home, no place, nothing to offer a child. She cast her eyes on Thyra.

"Her parents died in a fire," Osthryth murmered. My brother told me. Only he didn't know that he had. That was the day he had laughed with his men over the antics of Mus, the Bishop's wife and devout carer of the poor and hungry, who sold her body in the tavern at night for the fun of it. That had been the night he had taken Mus for his own.

In Ula's arms the little thing tried to cry, but its lungs, underdeveloped and weak, could only manage a sound like a loud sigh. Osthryth cursed her body. Since paying for information on her back and conceiving from it, it had never been the same as it once had been.

"She will perish if you do not, Osthryth."

And then her body intervened in the impasse between mind and biology. Dampness oozed on the inside of her linen jerkin. Osthryth held out her arms and took the child, knocking the buttons of her leather jacket open with one hand.

The baby took it eagerly, though there was no fore-milk. It would have to do. Of course it would have to do. If she took the baby back to her father she would be put to a wet-nurse and, within a week, suffer the same fate as her mother.

"Sit," Ula said kindly. "Eat. Remember this, Lackland; she will want to know her mother; she is comnected to her mother so strongly." Ula turned her black head back to Thyra. "She will be strong, and a sorceress. But she will keep her Christianity." Ula looked back to Osthryth. "Like you, Osthryth. A Christian who, beneath it all, believes in the gods and feels their real presence."

She smiled. Osthryth looked down at her new, unexpected charge, and shuddered. Is this what her baby might have been like? Hers and...his? Tiny, squirming, mewling, desperate for food, for closeness?

"She must be baptised," Osthryth declared.

"But, of course; it is part of who she is. But, like you, she will never forget." Osthryth said nothing for, to her shame, she knew that Ula, the outlaw healer, spoke the truth.

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"Aedre", Osthryth said, almost to herself, when her heart had stopped hammering and the tiny baby was surviving next to her own skin, buttoned up against her chest.

She sat on the bed of the shack she rented for a shilling a month, an extortionate amount. For this she got the room swept clean by the landlady and food laid out in the mornings, feeling the sleeping girl snuffle in her sleep.

Yes, Osthryth nodded down to the sleeping infant. For that name was once dead, like the bearer, Aedre Uhtredsdottir. And now, like the child, it deserved to live once more. 


	2. Escape

2.

"What did you do this time?" Father Beocca crouched down to Aedre's level and looked with care at her face. She looked up to him, with the hope that children display when they are in desperate need for a comforting word, but she did not cry. If she were to cry she was no warrior defending her home from the Danes.

Nevertheless, she bit her lip, her patience rewarded as she lingered at the priest's door, waiting for Beocca to leave, having watched him press on the parchment with his quill, shaping the letters into the words of God.

"I called my aunt "mother" ", Aedre said, looking directly at him, owning her guilt. "My Lord uncle hit me." She turned, showing the back of her legs, which were red hot where her uncle Aefric, usurper of her father's position, usurper of Uhtred's had thrashed her across her legs, bottom and back.

"I have come to ask for penance, Father. My Lord uncle told me that I should." Beocca smiled, holding out a hand.

"Come," he said, extending an arm. "Let us discuss this in the chapel." Whereupon Beocca told Aedre that admitting her guilt so bravely to him was penance enough, and she should focus on her letters, on being a good lady and not to fight too much with the stable hands.

"Will Uhtred return?" She asked brightly, her blue eyed brimming with hope? "My Lord uncle says he is dead."

"Your Lord uncle means," Beocca said, carefully, that he has been captured by the Danes, and no longer lives a Christian life, for he cannot. Your Lord uncle says a lot of things which may have a double meaning."

Yes, Aedre thought, like denying mother, my true mother, who was married to my father - Uhtred's father, also Uhtred - and insisting I call her "Aunt". For her Uncle Aelfric had married her on the death of her father, and produced Osbert, her baby brother. Aelfric was Lord now.

"I am a lady and a warrior," Aedre declared loudly, looking up determinedly to Beocca. "That is a double meaning. I am defending Bebbanburg and I am Uhtredsdottir!"

And Beocca had taken her gently by the shoulder and embraced her, paternally. Aedre did not cry, but instead, closed her eyes and painted a picture of her brother in her mind.

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"That damned Uhtred will come back, and when he does, I will be ready! He will curse the day he tries to retake Bebbanburg!"

It was an epithet Aedre had heard from time immemorial, from the time that she knew her name and knew her sea-home of Bebbanburg. She would hear him scoff to Seobhridht, his Strathclydian general that he could not marry his neice to secure Bebbanburg for she was more valuable in trade. Then, with the passimg of her mother - her aunt - Aedre did not realise the look of her uncle on her was one of desire; that if the church would permit it then she would be put to his bed and, yes, married to him.

But power and money reckoned higher in Aelfric's priorities: Kjartan had proposed the match to his son, nine years older than her. She would, at the age of ten, be bride to a pagan as a land settlement between her uncle and the Danes.

Beocca had been the only light in her dark life at Bebbanburg. Her earliest memory had been sitting on a step listening to him speaking to the small communitry of servants warriors and slaves the gospel, how he spoke about God as the wind and rain and sun, that He leaves the best parts of himself and just enough for us.

She remembered how the congregation listened in rapt silence, and how he had been the same in confessions, thiugh she could not understand what was being said. Aedre would listen, perched on walls, behind walls, in rafters and cupboards, listening to the life of the castle and she would hear her aunt lament her lot; she had married Aelfric rather than be murdered, and Aedre too. And had produced a son for the new Lord, which had won her small favour.

But she had died two years before. Aedre, whose life before that time had been rather more free and unlimited, had been reined in by the brute force of her uncle's will to be the lady that he expected her to be.

Up to then, she had been neglected, and this neglect had manifest itself into freedom. Aedre had learned that fighting was the way of life, fighting and letters. For reading and writing meant the power to know more than an enemy who could do neither. And she had learned the history of her Saxon line: Esa, King of the Idings had sailed to Northumbria and taken the land of the Britons.

There had been warrior kings ever since, Ida, of the Idings, Oswald, Oswi, who had killed Penda the Great of Mercia, the prefix "Os", Beocca had told me, was royal. But Osberht had lost Northumbria to Lordships when the Danes arrived until Uhtred's family were the last landholders in Northumbria.

It had struck Aedre that there was little difference between her family line invading Northumbria and displacing the Britons to the Danes displacing both the Saxons and the tiny Briton settlements that still clung on.

In tiny recess in the outer wall of the castle opposite Beocca's room she would sit, watching him patiently ink down strange markings on parchment, pausing from time to time to pray, to hear confession, to eat. She had been free to hear Father Beocca pray to God, and to preach. Not only free, she had thrived on it, following him round unseen, captivated by what she had heard about God, about heaven, about life everlasting.

And she had watched one night as he had welcomed the voyaging monks who had come to bring St Cuthbert's remains for veneration as they kept it on the move for safety.

The monks had been warriors too, battle-ready to defend their saint from desecration. St. Cuthbert certainly held power. Though she had been denied the chance to venerate the saint, she had watched his awe-some power on the ordinary people within Bebbanburg's walls. Even Seobhridht had staggered from the chapel, weak from his experience in the presence of the saint.

Aedre liked Seobhridht, who had taught her swordsmanship. The Strathclydian had laughed as she fought, roaring around the courtyard, telling her that she couldn't be a lady without knowing how to protect herself.

A warrior lady, she had told Beocca. I'll be a good warrior lady. As equal to the stories of her faith Aedre fought with the squires and groom-boys. She was liked; never shied away from a fair battle; never cried like a maid.

And once, one thing that she had taken to heart, and never left it was, when a young squire just taken a grounding from her. An older knight, who had held the wall against the Danes with their father declared that she had the figure and form of her brother.

Even now, it was a warming, cheering memory that kept her going on days which seemed bleak outside and in her mind. Like the memories of her uncle thrashing her for being wild. Like when Aelfric had expelled him.

She had heard her uncle curse at the priest at his downright refusal to marry Aedre to him. She had spent the night in her draughty room being good, being the lady expected of her by her uncle praying to God for Beocca. Her uncle was in such a rage Aedre feared he may put the priest to death.

And the tales Beocca had then told her about her brothers, both Uhtred, both warriors, both defending Bebbanburg from viking Danes flooded her mind, and had soothed her.

Had Aedre ever believed she would have found him? Not then. Aedre was nothing but a girl growing up in a castle while her adult uncle made all the decisions, decisions like murdering any loyal to her father, buying off the Danes and, the thing she hated him for the most, repelling the gentle, Godly Beocca.

For his was the voice, unknown to the priest, that soothed her childish fears as she listened to him speak quietly to the castle's occupants in prayer and comfort, her aunt more often than anyone else, who worried for Osbert. Even at the worst of times to come Aedre would transport herself in her mind to him speaking, God's messenger on Earth.

It was from Seobhridt that Aedre had first heard that Sven One-Eye kept a woman like an animal, in a cage at Dunholm. The general, usually delighting in such tales told his men this in unusually hushed tones.

Aedre, concealed in the gap between the inner and outer walls of the castle had been shocked. A pagan like them, a woman kept like that? For it had been that day Aelfric had told Aedre his plans for her: to be married to the son as a land agreement.

If they treated their own women so foully what then would be her fate in this trade deal so carefully explained to her by her uncle as if she were no more than cattle. And Kjartan was already called, "the Cruel". She could bet there would be no kindness shown to her, traded as she would be for land or alliances.

"You are to travel to Dunholm the day after tomorrow and marry Sven Kjartansson." Aelfric had told her. Bald words, as if telling her the weather or what was for dinner.

And on the day she was to travel, a lone warrior appeared on the drawbridge before the keep. Hushed voices, murmurs, shours brought Aedre to the parapet. And that had been the moment, the fleeting glimpse, when the rider had brought down his hood, holding aloft the head of Seobhridht.

He did not speak, instead, withdrawing a severed head from his cloaks, casting her uncle's general's head onto the ground. Aedre had been behind the weaponry store the previous night and had heard the household guard discussing the news that Uhtred was indeed alive and had rebelled against the Danish family he had been enslaved to, killing them.

Uhtred. He was nothing like her mind had imagined. Tall, well built, but sprightly, her brother held himself like a Lord. He looked old to me then, like a man, but he could only have been around nineteen. As she watched him ride away a feeling of hope flooded her whole body like the warm tides at the coast in the summer.

After he had departed, the castle's archers failing to despach him as he retreated, despite her uncle's fury. He noticed Aedre, and realised she must hahe seen her brother. He took her arm savagely, then demanded that she go to her room and prepare to travel next morning.

As she lay there as night drew in, Aedre decided to act. Tomorrow she was to go to be married to a Dane and would never see Bebbanburgh again. Never being at Bebbanburg was no bad thing. But, with cruel Danes? No measure of distaste or disagreement equalled that in her mind.

Aedre had concealed all she could about her oerson when she climbed through her chamber window. Under her cloak she wore everything she owned and now, with a rope that she had concealed weeks before, attached it to her bedframe.

Below her, lethal jagged rocks had been built tall to make Bebbanburg impenetrable. But there was a tiny harbour just below and in it, Aedre knew, would be a boat, all ready to row.

Maybe his plan had been to get away soon? For the gate to the hidden cove had been left ajar, and in it, in the moonlight, Aedre could see the stern of the skiff bobbing on the water.

Dangling on the rope as she bounced her feet off the volcanic stones used to build Bebbanburg's impenetrable walls.

A shout went up amd the rope twisted above her. She had been seen. Shouts of caution, calling, instruction all came from above her people, no doubt urging her to stop.

An arrow whistled by her hair, then another. Aedre could barely hear the noise below as she looked at the ground below her, now in shadow.

A "crack" above her indicated more archers, from the stonerail above and were firing down on her and Aedre knew in her heart that she had to act, or be shot to pieces.

Then she heard him. Her repugnant uncle, her lifelong tormentor, calling for his archers to rain down arrows onto her, to strike her down, to kill her.

She let go of the rope. It wasn't an accidental plunge; the ground looked impossibly far away but the skiff, though moving, looked like a target for which she could aim.

Aedre threw herself down the twenty feet drop as yet more arrows whistled past her, bracing herself for the crack of her bones on the basalt below.

But it didn't come. By chance Aedre had landed front down, cushioned by the clothes upon clothes she had dressed in.

In the skiff, both oars were carefully wedged under the central plank. When she pulled them out, to get them into the rowlocks, before untying the painter, Aedre found, too, a large linen bad stufded with food and, at the bottom, copious anounts of silver.

Aedre's luck held, for a time at least. She rowed out into the sea, little lights on the coast her guide that she was heading north. But even now arrows were flying and one hit her hand, lodging its evil, barbed point into the fleshy part of her wrist.

The pain subsided after a time as, in the waning sun, she passed the bird islands of the Farne, the Holy Island of Lindisfarne just beyond it. Aedre had managed to get the shaft away from the barb, but the arrow point was still buried into the base of her hand.

And then she landed, exhausted, unable to row on, the skiff beaching just off St. Cuthbert's Isle. Monks had waded out to get her.

"My parents left Saehuises this morning." False tears were easy to come by from her injured hand. "They thought I was with them! But.. I was...left behind..."

"And you rowed here?" One of the monks asked, having carried her, her large bag and her father's sword into the monastery with them. The second monk eyed her, dubiously.

"Aedre nodded."

"And you are injured?" The second monk said, testing the sword in his hands, balancing ut so as to find the balance point. Aedre false-she sobbed again.

"That boat went to Edinburgh then the pilgrims are going on to Iona," the first monk said, older, Aedre thought than the one looking suspiciously at her.

"Child," the first monk said. "A boat leaves in the morning with more pilgrims. Would you take it? Or," he looked down at the blood, staining on her left hand, "or, we could treat your hand and you could recuperate yere, until the next boat leaves, in a month."

"Tomorrow," Aedre whimpered. Her uncle would be searching by now and would get to Lindisfarne by the morning. It would be a close all.

"And you rowed this boat yourself, child?" The second monk said. Aedre wanted more than anything just now to give her bavk her father's sword, but instead the monk just turned it over and over, as if teasing her.

"No. A from our village helped me row. These are my father's things; he's a trader. But we had to stop at Bebbanburg. There were arrows flying." She held up her hand. "Ehbright, that was his name, was killed. They shouted that they would catch me and would give me to...to...the Danes!" At that part, she bent her gead and false-wept into her cloak. They were not real, Aedre told herself, despite damp, saline water clustering behind her eyes.

At least that part was true. And although the now-dead Seobhridht didn't know it, he had helped her escape. Sometimes, the man spoke in his drunken state of wild forests and cold deep lakes, sometimes in a language, mournful, yet merry. And sometimes he had spoken of a skiff waiting for him in the hidden harbour for the day he sailed one way home again.

A similar vessel to a viking longship, of which Aedre had seen many butting around the harbours around Bebbanburg, had been prepared to sail by the monks. The main difference was that the sails draped at an angle on both sides to hug the coast and catch all the breeze it could.

The other difference was that monks from Lindisfarne were travelling to Alba's sacred isle for pilgrimage and teaching. Way out on the horizon Aedre, clutching her bag and sword, spied a slave ship.

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He's a piece of shit," Finan laughed as he smoothed Osthryth's hair from her eyes. It was nearly morning and she needed to be back at the palace. Guarding the aethling had been the luck she had needed. No, not luck. God always had a plan, it was just sonetimes He hid the instructions and made you have to work out the purpose for yourself, blind alleys and all.

The warmth of the fire banked up well circulated around them. The house she rented was good value, and enough for her, who abided at the palace most days and nights.

When she had first caught the eye of King Alfred, who had seen her defending herself against three thieves with daggers and dirty tricks, besting all three, he told her she was wanted to guard young Prince Edward.

Guard against who, she'd asked.

Everyone, a man called Odda the Younger told her. Danes, rebels, assassins. Aethelwold. Especially Aethelwold. So she had done, and the wealth in her bag had grown. Tonight, though, she had chanced on Uhtred's men celebrating a battle win at a place called Aylesbury and Finan had chanced again on Osthryth.

"Truly. And I know Uhtred." Osthryth leaned up to kiss him, trailing her hand down his face. "Aethelred, Alfred's brother died. He refused to name Aethelwold as heir. He kerps Uhtred bound up with oaths. To be honest, considering the shit these oaths have brought us, I think the bugger likes making oaths to the King of Wessex."

Osthryth kissed his warm neck. He had told her once he had been a Prince of the Ulstermen. She had told him she was Queen of Bernicia and would take Deria back from the Danes. And they laughed again at their stories.

"Mo ghile mear," he whispered, hotly, near her ear. "My gallant darling."

"Finan mòr", Osthryth replied, trailing her fingers lightly, intentfully, down his leg. "Finan the Great."

"The agile, I was called," he said, sliding her down and pushing Osthryth's knees apart with his own.

Whoever would have known that on the morrow a king would have died? Whoever would have known she would have stormed a burning building to rescue the wife of the beloved Beocca and becone a mother to her baby?

Who would have thought that last night would be her last night with Finan?

Salt water adsorbed onto Osthryth's cheeks. The sea spray, she told herself, as little Aedre rooted for her breakfast. 


	3. Dunnottar

Who has seen S4 yet of Last Kingdom? Wow! I mean...wow! I got to episode 4 and thought it must be near the end of the series...and thete was still 6 more to go! I just need to know they are going to do S5!

There are some parts they changed, some bits I'm glad they padded out. What do you think?

Thank you to you all who have favourited this story and added reminders. I am sorry I have not updated recently, I was trying to get another fic finished.

I am trying out a new format, the narrative intersecting at two different, pivotal points in the chapters. I don't know how it will work, or whether, as readers, you like it like that - please tell me!

I am sorry that Aedre has had to miss the Battle of Edington and pretty much all of the action of the first three "Saxon Stories" books, because she was too young, nine or ten years younger than Uhtred. But there's one heck of a journey ahead of her.

I have read the books several times as well as tying in with the TV series.

What are your thoughts on the series? Who is your favourite character? Is there anything the series should have done that the books missed?

Let me know and I'll tell you mine next chapter.

Here we are, Chapter 3...

88888888 3. Spring 877 Aedre sat at the centre of the boat packed full of pilgrims. So many of them had stayed at the Holy Island that it had been difficult to find a place for her to sleep.

She had sat on the steps of the monastery, looking out towards St. Cuthbert's Isle, wondering whether it would be safer for her to find a cave until first light until the monk, that Aedre believed to be suspicious of her circumstances, found a pile of straw and a cloak under which she could sleep above the horses along with a family who had travelled from Lincoln.

The mother had fussed her, on hearing that she had been left behind by her family and made her welcome beside her three daughters. But Aedre had barely slept.

Lindisfarne was land which the monks paid tribute to their landowner, Aedre knew. And the landowner was Bebbanburg and the lord to whom they must pay coin was her Uncle Aelfric. So there was little sleep for Aedre that night as she listened for sounds that her identity might be known and that she was about to be hurried off back to to her old fortress home, clutching her father's sword in its scabbard to her body.

Her presence would probably even now be reported to her uncle, Aedre thought as the grey-gold light of the early morning pushed through the gaps in the masonry while the Lincolnshire family slept.

But she had done all she could to act the part of poor, lost girl. She was from Seahuises, she had said. Her family were merchants. She had been taught her letters and her father was pious: he had taught her Latin, and with it, the bible.

It wasn't much of a lie: Father Beocca had taught her Latin and English, and had indeed told her stories of God's greatness: of His punishment of His people with floods and plagues, and His mercy on the occasion of His sending down his only son to Earth. He could be classed as her father, for he was Father to all at Bebbanburg.

In the morning, when all had been bright and fresh on the holy island, as if the night had washed clean the sins of the day before, the abbot who had been suspicious of her landing and her injury.

A monk, Beadda, had taken her down to the quay, where a fleet of five dip-sailed boats were being filled with people, families, all pilgrims desperate to get to St. Cuthbert's Isle and feel the awe-some presence of God.

"You will be with your family soon," Beadda soothed, handing a a chunk of bread. Aedre reached up for it gratefully: it had been a long time since her breakfast the day before and the rowing had tired her. It had been Beadda who had held her on his lap as another monk, a healer, had carefully removed the arrowhead.

"This will hurt," he had said.

"I'll be brave," Aedre had played, pretence with tears and fear doing the job. And it had hurt, and she had shed real tears. And the Beadda had bathed it and dressed it, telling her in soft tones, "We will find your family. Get some rest and we will find it. Your father will know his sword." And Aedre had been allowed to keep it, as a form of identification.

"Girl," Beadda's voice called her to her senses. "The boats are to leave. Will you come?"

And with God's help, as the monk lifted her over the edge of the boat, the tide rushing them out away from the island, she would be deep into Pictland before news of her having reached Lindisfarne had been sent to Bebbanburg.

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The shoal of boats leaving Lindisfarne were heading north-west into Pictland's Moray river. The wide headland ahead stood out against the sky, its green-blue land growing ever bigger as the sun insisted on rising and shining right down on them, as if pointing out their boats, Aedre's boat, and then her. Sitting as she was by the young daughter of the Lincolnshire family, she slid to the planked bottom of the boat, wrapping her arms around her legs and pressing her face to her knees, her warm blonde hair spilling over her shoulders like a curtain.

The woman of the family leaned over and touched her shoulder, muttering kind words about knowing how she must miss her family. The father eyed Aedre's father's sword greedily and when he tried to move it out of her reach, no doubt to keep it, she held onto its handle with all its might.

"It was her father's", the monk Beadda said, who was sitting on the starboard bench a few people down. "I think she means to take it to him."

Whether by the holy man's words, or that there were a few people watching the potential act of a man taking the property of a child, the Lincolnshire man cleared his throat, and leaned back, holding his wife's shoulders and looking out at the sea-scape.

Aedre glimpsed at all of this through her hair and vowed, though the monks had put her with this family in the belief it would keep her safe, to be clear of the pilgrims just as soon as they landed.

Dusk came just as the headland of the Dee came into view. Aedre, who was now sitting next to the mother of this family, feigning acceptance, had beenrewarded witha handful of bread.

This mother was kind, Aedre thought. She had her two little children tucked right by her, and had spent a good hour as the boat negotiated the wide estuary, to the landing opposite an isle on which a monastery stood. Indeed, the boat that had piloted them in had come from the small harbour. Clearly, thought Aedre, the monks knew one another, and helped one another and indeed, with the lateness of the hour, their little fleet were guided towards the monastery.

A conversation was being conducted, as the pilgrims huddled closer to shield themselves from the biting wind, between the abbot and the monk Beadda, who had tended her wounds.

Instinctively, Aedre bent her head next to the family's younger children and sheltered near to the mother, who stood close to her husband. Eyes like blue chips of ice rested on Aedre's father's sword for a moment, as the dimming setting sun highlighted the curling wave patterns in the blade.

Aedre never knew the name of the sword, for her father had died before she was born, but rather a luckless, nameless blade she had revovered from the armoury, appropriated by Seobhridht and recovered by her in her hand than his. Buried in his stomach if he tried to steal it.

If Aedre had had any cause to remember her thoughts on that dull, cold night, there could be any number of things to choose from: her first thought on deliberate murder, which might be very concerning in a ten-year-old.

It might have been the monastery of Culdees itself, a dull, turreted, grey stone building, somewhere money had been poured to afford the richness of its construction. Somewhere where the doors were flanked by no less than a dozen monks waiting for the pilgrins. Somewhere Aedre would get very familiar with in the future.

Or it could be that, she thought, as she sheltered into the arms of the woman into whose family she had been thrust, an arrow wound to her hand, she could not trust those in authority to help her - more likely that news of her disappearance would gave reached the community here already.

Like just now, as the abbot rested his eye on Aedre's face, his gaze lingering for a moment too long. When the time was right, she would have to make a run for it, and there would be no better opportunity than the next day, when they would cross the Forth. For the next part of their journey, their walk into Dal Riada territory, to the west coast until they reached the sea, then out, to Iona itself, would vegin at first light. Plenty of opportunities to lose herself, and find her own way. Especially as she had wealth, tucked flat into her jerkin.

"You don't have to be afraid," whispered the woman, against whose arm she had huddled. "You may come with us to Iona, to find your family."

The man and the woman were shown a room off the main hall of the monastery where they could sleep, and, like the rest of the pilgrims, were charged a silver piece for food and lodging for the night. The man of the family paid dutifully, before Beadda, the monk from Lindisfarne, escirted them to the central hall of the monastery where they were given bread and weak ale.

Aedre sat eating her bread, ignoring the weevils falling from it as she continued to pretend she was one of the family when she noticed, from the corner of her eye, that Beadda was in animated conversation with the abbot, his gesticulation once or twice in her direction.

Was he telling the man how she was discovered rowing towards the monastery with a hand wound? Did they know of her uncle? Had he raised the alarm of her disappearance and these holy men knew of it already?

Aedre ducked lower again, hoping she was being seen to be penitent and humble. But her mind raced: she must be free of the pilgrim party, and soon.

In the cavernous antechamber the monks were at work, fetching and carrying to accommodate their unexpected, lucrative guests. Groups of people were ushered here and there, and the Abbot, Beidinn, spoke to the father of Aedre's temporary foster-family. He held out an old, wrinkled hand firmly to one side of the man, who grudgingly counted four coins into the abbot's hands.

"Five", corrected the abbot, raising his eyebrows to three children. At the slight hesitation, the man looked at Aedre, his eyes narrowing, before flicking to the face of his wife, who bobbed her head for a moment.

"Five," agreed the man, reluctantly, before the abbot declared his thanks, stepping deftly across the granite flagstone floor.

They were led up a set of spiral steps, which opened out into a wide chamber, already filling up with pilgrims from the boats that had been piloted in to the monastery that evening. A lot of people sat in groups of twos and threes, huddled together, eating, or sleeping. Some, with small children, were nursing them or feeding them.

The abbot picked his way through the people, the man and his family in tow. Aedre scanned the people for space - where would they be going? She couldn't see a place empty enough for all five of them. But the abbot of Culdees was not taking them to a space in this room, instead he was striding to a door at the far side of the room. Hand on the iron ring of the latch, he turned it.

"It has space for you all, my lord," the abbot said deferentially, his voice soft. The man looked taken a-back.

"Thank you," he murmured, not correcting the man as he ushered his family inside, his eye coming to rest on Aedre's face again.

A bed, set to one side of a larger one was where the two children were to sleep. The young boy, aged about five, struggled and wriggled in his mother's arms as tiredness overcame him. His sister took his arm and led him to the bed, speaking silent, soft words to him.

Aedre sat next to the girl, and looking between the woman amd kan for signs that she had done the right thing. But the nan and tbe woman were now standing by an arched window that looked down in tbe darkness onto the grounds of the monastery below, and further, onto the river, and the jorthern bank of the Forth. Next to the girl, her father's sword beside her, Aedre lay, and closed her eyes.

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A noise, like a tiny beast scratching its way in the dark on the hunt for food, awoke Aedre. Blinking into the darkness, she wondered what she shape was ahead of her, that of a shield which, upon its surface, as black as rocks that her uncle had once gifted her, were painted shimnering white dots.

Aedre blinked, and this time, realised that the dots were not paint, and the shield was, in fact, the outline of the window of the room to which she had been led, with the family she had been given to.

She stared at the stars before a shiver brought her to her feet. By the lice-riddled straw was her father's sword, where she had lain it as the mother of the family tucked a thin, wool blanket around her arms.

Swords had names, Aedre knew, but this sword had belonged to the father she had never known. It had hung between two iron brackets at the back of the armoury. She had never known her uncle touch it, or use it. But it had been Seobhridht who had, for a joke, placed the sword in her hand one weak-rayed, autumn morning and had knelt to her, calling her, "My lady."

They had guffawed and snorted at her with the sword in hand, taller as it was than herself. And, at the same time that she was being mocked by the guards, Aedre had felt a warmth, a rightness from the smooth, iron hilt in her hand.

But she had never known it's name. To her it was "Faedersword" and, at the times her uncle would hit her, for not eating her food, for not learning to sew, for creeping out of her room at night to sit above the chapel and look at the stars...for when not even Father Beocca had a kind word for her, she would hold it, swing it - clumsily - feel its weight; feel it's ambition, belonging to the father she had never known.

It wasn't his first sword, of course. That had been the one he had lost in battle when he had lost his life. When her brother gad been lost to them, when she was just a mere baby. Second of everything. It suited her. Second sword, for a second-hand girl, raised for the second purpose in dynasties: a marriage contract.

But her brother had been second-hand too: Father Beocca had once told her how her father's eldest son, called Uhtred, had gone to fight against invading danes and had lost his head. Her mother, who herself was second-hand to Aelfric and had to deny Aedre's existence, had, once Uhtred the Elder had died, insisted Osbert should be re-baptised as Uhtred to meet his father's demand that his name be changed. Osbert became Uhtred, the brother she knew almost like a fairy-tale, a legend.

"I held him under a little too long," Father Beocca had told Aedre with a chuckle. Your mother was most distressed.

Oh, that Father Beocca was there now to comfort her; Aedre knew she would endure his whacks for her disobedience knowing his strong words would eventually melt to softness.

Aedre found that her left hand was pulsing now, and stretched it, to ease the cramp in it. Beadda had treated her hand again, with the same pungent, sweet-smelling ointment when the boat's passengers set foot before the gates of the monastery. It was healing.

More scratching nearby focused Aedre's thoughts to her situation. An archway of stone framed a field of stars, which stopped abruptly around an umknown shape in the background. In the foreground, the stone parapet that was the front of Culdees monastery blocked out more.

Pulling the wool blanket to her shoulders, Aedre moved across the straw-covered boards. Beyond the monastery ships disrupted the reflected star field of the river.

She would be over there tomorrow, over the river, for the monks were to take them to the castle at Dunkeld before taking the path of the river, and another that would lead them west. Beadda had been discussing it on the boat that day and she, as fugitive from Bebbanburg, had listened with interest.

There was a clatter behind her. Aedre tensed and swung round. A glint of moonlight played on a pattern of waves, a pattern she knew in her dreams.

A tall, vast figure was there, crouching a litttle as if in triumph, crouching in delight with what he now possessed.

Faedersword.

At once, Aedre leapt. The man with whose family she had been placed held the sword aloft. Moonlight reflected his pleasure at her anger.

"It's mine!" Aedre shouted, not thinking to care if she awoke the rest of the family, nor indeed, the rest of the monastery. "Give it back! You're stealing!"

"Just like you did, with this!" thundered the man, pushing her away. "This can't be yours, or your father's, you coming from Seahuises. Yer must have stolen it!"

Aedre made to keap at the man, to get back her father's sword; to recover it. But the words this brute of a man, still pushing her away, remained in her mind. She had come from Seahuises. Of course she had, so she had told Beadda. So she would never likely be in genuine possession of a blade as fine as that. If anyone were to think her noble, then they might start asking questions.

A shudder as her mind told her the name Sven Kjartansson passed through Aedre's body. She wpuld have to be cunning never to e

A crunch and a scraping of wood confirmed that someone had heard their disturbance. Aedre looked quickly towards the door towards the large sleeping hall. Yes, someone was coming in.

"Unless," the man suggested, a slow smile creeping over his face. "The size of it, this took a long time. "...you come from a noble family - why are you running - who missed you?" He leered closer, his eyes widening. "How much will they pay for your safe return?"

Aedre said nothing, but jerked her head towards the door, behind which metalware was beginning to be unbolted.

The big man followed her stare. It was enough. In a trice, Aedre leapt towards him, bearing down as hard as she could with his teeth. At once, the man dropped the sword, which thudded onto the straw. He roared in pain, swiping out towards Aedre, who missed most of the blows, though one hand caught the side of her face.

She had it! Just as the door opened, the man staggering around after her, Aedre ran to the window. It wasn't much higher than the turret tower at Bebbanburg, although it was the middle of the night and she would barely be able to see where she was going. That was if the walls of the monastery were not smooth - if they were, she was done for.

Aedre tossed her father's sword out if the window. It disapoeared into the pitch black of the night, but the commotion in the room as voices were raised, the man's own sharp and indignant above all the rest.

Aedre felt the masonry with her foot, stretching down lower with her left as she held tightly to the windowsill. Nothing.

She couldn't very well go back up; her arms, for one thing, felt very tired, and Aedre doubted that they would pull her back up.

She lowered herself down to her arm's fullest length. Surely, there must be something. Above her, shouts.

"She must he there, somewhere!"

"Well, someone find her!"

"Let us hope she is safe! I put her with you because I thought she would be." That was Beadda, his soft, cool voice remonstrating with the man.

Aedre's arms began to weaken as her legs sought purchase with the monastery wall as she fought with her mind to stop her from shouting out.

Beadda would help her, Aedre's mind beguiled. Talk to Beadda. But if she did that, she risked being returned to Bebbanburg.  
Scrabbling desperately at the vertical stone wall Aedre felt liquid ooze from her hand. Pain throbbed down her arm as her healing arrow wound pressed against the windowsill. She couldn't hold on much longer.

And then, a ledge, thin, but long, long enough to reach down to grasp.

With ease, Aedre pulled herself into the night while the man, who had roused the abbot, stormed about his bite, the voices dimming as she climbed down.

Her hand was in agony once she reached the last twenty feet, the moon illuminating the ground, the part-built abbey church towering to her right.

More voices now as more people were being alerted to her absence, more hastily-shared conversations; more glimmers of candlelight.

There was nothing for it, Aedre knew, but to make a jump for it. Whatever lay below her would either cushion her fall, or kill her.

It was the former. Spiky hawthorn scratched Aedre as she landed part way through it and she painfully pulled herself out of it.

She would have to run, sonewhere - lights from candles were growing brighter as people made their way towards the abbey's courtyard.

It was cold. Aedre shivered as she got to her feet. She stumbled, bruising her foot. But the noise of her impact with the object did not go un-noticed in her mind: the clatter meant metal.

She scrambled in the darkness for the object, her hand first pulling at something soft, then resting on...yes, metal. Her father's sword, wrapped as it had been, when she first threw it down, in her blanket.

Taking it up, Aedre stalked towards the entrance, the gates bolted. A man ran from the abbey gates, then another, noth heading towards them. Aedre slunk backwards, her back pressed to the imcomplete church walls.

Light from the candle showed the man - the abbot now addressing the monk on watch in an animated fashion.

And then Aedre saw it, just for a moment, as the abbot swung around and strode back towards the monastery - her way out. There was a gap, not two feet wide, on the north side of the monastery walls, presumably to aid the masons who were building the monastery's church. She took her chance.

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It was morning when Aedre opened her eyes. Grey skies and grey cliffs formed together in her mind. Her back ached and she stretched her arms from underneath the boat's planked seating.

It hadn't been the best plan in the world to hide in tbe pilgrim boats the night before. But she had to go somewhere, sonewhere else, somewhere she could make a bid to safety.

And just as she was considering what to do next there it was: the bag she had left behind, hidden under at the back of the seat on which she had sat the day before with the mother and the two children, discreetly secreted as they disembarked.

A skein of geese honked overhead as they flew past, defining the sky from the cliffs. Where could she go? There was nothing here, Aedre thought. The monastery was on an island. Her only hope was to get across the mile stretch of water yo the mainland and there consider her options.

Aedre's mind drifted to food as the grey sky was illuminated from behind by the sun, making the grey clouds paler and brighter. Could she sneak back to the monastery amd find the kitchen, steal something.

Leaving the silver bag back where shevhad found it, Aedre jumped down onto the hard, wet sand, the movement if the estuary pushing the water about the fast boats, looking to her left, where she noticed the monastery gates now open. Perhaps if she -

"I have found your daughter!" A shout went up from Aedre's right and the Abbot Beidinn, who had sold the family the room, taking her firmly hy the shoulder.

"My child!" he exclaimed when he saw her appearance: straggly salt-encrusted hair from the rain in the night, damp clothes, dirty face.

From out of the gates of the monastery the family came: the mother and her two boys first, the father looming like a cliff, face angry. The woman, seeing he had spied Aedre, put her hand on his arm.

"You - where have you been?"

"Waiting here." Aedre hoped she sounded penitent.

"We missed you so much!" declared the mother, who was now trying to keep up the pretence that she was their daughter.

"He's not my father!" Aedre cried, as the gulls below mocked her petulant cry.

"I am her guardian, as well she knows," said the man, eyeing the sword with envy. Aedre hid it behind her back, looked beseechingly at the woman, trying to make out that she was innocent. She looked uncertainly at her husband, who was nursing his leg.

Bur whatever had been the outcome of the conversation between Abbot Blathmac and the man in whose company she had been obliged to keep, she was back in theur possession.

Then, from out of her unresisting grasp the abbot then wrenched her father's sword. He took it and handed it to the advancing man, who pulled the blade from its skin, his eyes gleaming in greed.

"We can go aboard, and wait," the woman said hastily, hoisting her son and daughter over the taffrail. "You too."

Aedre, hurried over to the seating under which the previous metals, coins and documents. She huddled over to the very edhe of the seat, curling herself up to protect against the wind, glowering at the man, who was revelling in his new found fortune. Aedre's eyes fell upon the monastery doors again, open now for the pilgrims, who were beginning to priceed to their boats in groups, twos and threes, shouldering packs and weapons and children.

Next to her, the man grumbled thanks to the abbot for reuniting his family, and crushed Aedre hard against the side of the boat, her father's sword across his lap.

Aedre felt resentful, and was feeling hungry. Her hand ached, and she lowered her head, folding it towards her body. The woman, as if reading her mind, handed her a rather large piece of greying bread, which fell apart in her hands, having been partially consumed by insects, several of which dropped out and into her lap.

The boats cast off and it was clear they were crossing the Dee and heading to the northern shore. Aedre sat motionless, looking at the water, the sporadic sunlight glinting on the undulations every so often as she thought. Get away from this family, Aedre knew. Get right away. Get her father's sword, if she could.

The boats were swift. Already, the monk Beadda, in a craft ahead of them, was on his feet by the pilot, gauging the flat piece of earth ahead of them, where they would land.

Aedre wriggled, giving a helpless look to the woman. But she looked away, instead fussing over her own children, deliberately avoiding Aedre's eye. Faedersword pushed painfully into her leg.

What was his plan? Aedre thought. If it was to rape her, he would have done it by now. He had been insistent on continuing the lie that she, Aedre, was his daughter, and in the whole endeavour of leaving, the details of her arrival at Lindisfarne had been overlooked.

Then, a thought occurred to Aedre. If it was so, then maybe she could use it to her advantage. She could pretend she was frightened, pretend she wanted to be with this family, and then no-one would remember her mysterious arrival, and any enquiries sent from Bebbanburg.

With renewed hope, Aedre looked beyond the mud jetty, to the landscape beyond, and to the castle beyond and realised she had seen it before.

In a sketch in the back of one of Bebbanburg's holiest of manuscripts, the Life of Saint Oswald, Dunkeld Castle was drawn, as if the artist had sat on the very monastery bank behind them and drawn it to scale.

It was home to the Pictish Royal Family, Father Beocca had told her. "Those people long occupying the land in the north," he had said, his jaw set, and his mouth thin. "They are the first peoples of this land, and they owned Northumbria too, until the Romans built the Great Wall." She had asked how he knew this. Beocca had explained that the Romans had written all of this down and, miraculously, when Rone had fallen to the Barbarian, tbe documents had miraculously escaped destruction.

"So, the Picts are Barbarians," Aedre had asked. Father Beocca had narrowed his eyes.

"They are Christians, as are we. They neighbour the Dal Riadans, who brought Saint Columba's Christian teachings to Lindisfarne."

"So, they are not enemies?" Aedre had pressed.

"They are enemies when they choose, or us."

Aedre's mind filled with her beloved Father Beocca as their boat was dragged to the shore. One of the monks she recognised from the evening before put out a long, broad arm to help her out. The man thrust Faedersword across her stomach, which caused her to lose her reach and she was thrust back against the seat She looked down, humbly. Clearly, if she was going to play along being part of this family she had to be submissive.  
The other eight pilgrims passed in front of Aedre as the monks helped them out, followed next by the mother and children of the family.

"Wait here!" growled the man, pulling up his arm with which he had pinned Aedre to her seat, and he proceeded to help his family up the bank, using the bescabbarded sword for support.

"We are going on," the monk, who had tried to help her said, looking down kindly to Aedre. "Your father is - " he broke off, apparently not knowing how to finish the sentence as the family strode off after the pilgrims. "Perhaps - "

"He is very protective of me," Aedre offered, reaching under the bench boards. The bag was still there. Could she run? The monk held out his habd to haul her up. She took it. "He wants to make sure we - "

But Aedre, too, did not finish her sentence. Behind the monk a roar, like the loudest storm Aedre had ever heard.

She looked up, expecting the downpour. Ahead of her, on the dry road ahead, a castle loomed, like a sea eagle, the turrets to either side of the main gateway spreading out over the countryside as if predating it.

The monk turned, in pursuit of the rest of the pilgrim party. Aedre took a few steps towards him. Then froze. The ground shook as the hooves of hundreds of horses skirted out from the side of Dunnottar Castle, making a whooping, screeching sound.

She looked at the monk, who had dropped low to the ground, the skein of pilgrims still as they watched the riders approach, before scattering and fleeing, to the hillocks near the estuary; towards the castle; back towards the boats.

That had been a mistake. Those shambling back towards Aedre were being scooped up and hacked down by axes and swinging metal fixed to poles. She stumbled back. Just a few feet from the boat now, and she scrabbed for the reeds to help her back in.

Now the gate of the castle was opening, a gate banging open. More men poured out and Aedre could see that they were dressed similarly to her uncle's troops - plain helmet and leather clothing tight fitting, spilling out behind the rider qt the front, arraying out to engage the others who had appeared on the field of battle first. They must be Norse, Aedre reasoned - their clothing was made of animal skins, their fair hair in elaborate braids.

But before her mind could reckon on what to do next, to seize the boat, or to hide, her eye was drawn to a pair of riders who were charging at a small group near the narrow strand next to the estuary, one if them holding aloft a sword inexpertly and failing to do any damage or deflect any blow. Aedre strained upwards behind large clumps of grass that were between the castle and the boats

It was the family she had fallen in with. The father was wielding Faedersword as he was cut down, his wife and children next.

Could she get to the sword? Even now, with the castle soldiers in pursuit raining blows on horses legs and mouths and on Norse bodies, the army was being drawn.

It couldn't - they couldn't - have been any more than a hundred yards from Aedre. But a drawn army was still dangerous. If it had continued fighting somewhere else it could just as easily come back.

But...her father's sword...

Keeping low, she skittered across the mud and gravel to the corpse of tbe father, trying her best to look at him as she got the sword over his already stiffening fingers. A shout and a low scream drew her attention and she grasped at the sword as she scanned the horrifying picture around her.

The scream came again, this tine much closer. From the thin, wispy shore grass tore a figure, that of a child with a Norseman behind. The rider raised his arm, the battleaxe in his grasp raised high in order to inflict a deadly blow to the child.

Aedre tore forwards, upsetting a rolled up pack lost, no doubt, by an unfortunate from her party. The contents, some books and scrolls, and several apples, rolled out. The horse skittered on them, then reared back on its hind legs. The Norseman lost his balance and was thrown. The child tore towards her.

Aedre grabbed his hand, pulling him faster than his legs wanted to carry him, until his legs were sore from the rough soil and grass.

Down to the water line Aedre tore, still holding fast to the child. She searched for her boat, the one Aedre had the silver on.

After a minute or so of frantic searching, Aedre he spied it, the craft that had brought her, under which had having pulled and pushed itself between the others.

She stepped forward. But the little boy suddenly dropped her hand. Aedre turned. The child whose life she had just saved was foldingvhis arms, imperiously.

"You have to come with me!" Aedre insisted. She grabbed out at the boy, who wriggled out of her grasp, a look of indignation on his face.

"Come on!" Aedre insisted, looking over the tussock "They're going to kill you - and me if we don't moce!" As she spoke, a horsed rider was bearing down on them. Aedre got up.

"Come on!" She repeated, taking the boy's forearm. She began to run, the boy tumbling after her, but the child slipped on the wet grass, his leather boots flailing as he went down.

There was nothing for it. Too late, this rider - this Norseman, was closing down on them, an axe raised. And then Aedre looked again. As the boy flailed, it was clear the warrior was closing down on him.

He hadn't seen her. The warrior, in single-minded pursuit of the boy, who had now stopped still, staring at his end, had not seen Aedre, staring at him.

Aedre moved. Why, she never did know. But it was the start of her many battles, fear dissolving about her as she stepped out from the grassy hillock, withdrawing the sword once belonging to her father, its wisps and curls, birthmarks of manufacture, catching the morning sunlight. And ran.

She had no real idea what she was doing. Sword blazing into action, Aedre ran at the rider, slashing her arm from left to right. And the rider had still not seen her.

But the horse had. Whether newly-trained or simply fearful of danger, it had seen the figure brandishing a weapon and charging towards it. It reared to its hind hooves, its rider tumbling off. And all the time the boy had simply been staring.

Aedre bore down on the warrior. Mad, crazy, that idea was, a ten-year-old girl with a geavy sword preparing to attack a Norseman. But the man was dazed, scrabbing for his axe. No thoughts passed through Aedre's mind now as she raised her arm, the metal of the sword blade making inaccurate incisions into the man's face and chest.

"Come on!" This was the boy now, stirring himself into voice, calling Aedre away, and she was brought back to the present, the roar of battle behind them.

Not stopping to clean the blade, Aedre stumbled towards him. They had been going to the boats, she recalled. Pulling the boy by the arm, who seemed much more willing to go with her this, Aedre searched the estuary bank for the boats - specifically, her boat.

A crescendo of noise behind them caused her to run faster, ignoring now the pain in her hand caused by the pressure of holding the sword. Throwing it into the one which was hers, she took the terrified boy by the woollen shouldrrs of his tunic. Perghahs if her mind had been at ease, she might have noticed the significance of this. But it wasn't. Warriors now were pouring in their direction.

"Under the seat!" Aedre yelled, as the boy skittered around on the boards at the bottom, then she, too, launched herself into it, scrabbling herself under the bench on which she had sat not half an hour before, reaching out for the sword.

The horses came to a standstill. Aedre waited, listening, trying not to breathe as the the horses huffed while their riders waited. She looked across to the bench at the other side of the boat: she could not see the boy: he was well tucked under in there. Aedre shifted her leg. Must be still. Must - be -

Voices drew Aedre's attention. She didn't know how long they had been there: the light betrayed no shadow, and the gentle lulling of the water had caused her to close her eyes.

But she was wide awake now, her body stiff as she listened as a rustle and a thud vibrated through the boat's wood. Her first thought was of the boy adjacent. Was he still there or had he gone? She could not tell. She stretched out her arm, carefully, her fingers touching the bag Seobhridht had placed in the tiny rowing boat she had piloted to the Holy Island two days before. Curling her hand around it, Aedre pushed it far into her tunic, the coins jostling for position.

And then froze again. Voices were even nearer now: could it be the man she had stabbed? It was true, she hadn't the strength to skewer deeper. A foot stepped onto the boat, and then another. To Aedre's horror she could see the trail of blood spots, faint but still obvious, from the deck, over the taffrail and back out onto the grass, where they glittered like rubies, betrayed by the sun.

Knees covered feet. Whoever had found his way into the boat had noticed them too. Aedre tried to hold her breath, noticing something opposite: the boy's leg flashed forward, for just a second.

It had not been seen by the Knees. And yet, he was not gone either.

"Ceinid!" The man called out, towards the bank, his muffled cry answered with another pair of feet stepping into the boat.

And then, Aedre was pulled out by the ankle with a huge hand. She screamed as she was pulled upright, expecting the face to be that of the Norse she had just stabbed. But he wasn't Norse! This warrior was shorter and slighter, long black hair contrasting against his pale face. He shook Aedre hard by the shoulder. Aedre felt the money clinkle slightly under her tunic.

"I...I..." Aedre gasped.

"We saw you with the King's nephew! The heir to the throne!" The warrior called Ceinid snarled at her, then noticed her fathet's sword? Even on the scabbard, it had dried blood.

"Ye have killed him? Speak, lad, lest ye burn on a fire, as happens to all that are traitors!" He picked her up painfully by the shoulder. Others were gathered on the bank now, clad as this man was, in dark leather bands over their shoulders, staring through their close-fitted helmets at her.

Was this the end? Was she going to be beaten, or worse?

"I'm here!" A voice behind the warrior sounded, clear and bright. It would be a voice Aedre would come to recognise as well as her own. Ceinid swung his head round, his long, black braid down his back whipping shortly after him.

"It's Constantine!" A shout went up as the man Ceinid crouched lower to inspect the child. Aedre stared too. It was the boy who Aedre had pulled with her. He had been hiding under the seet all the time.

"Go, off with you," the man growled, then stared at Aedre. "You too."

Constantine was helped to the bank by the onlookers. Aedre still had the coins in her shirt, which tinkled as she walked, as she followed the boy, who came to a halt in front of a man, taller than the rest, giving the impression to Aedre herself, that he was the raptor-bird who nested in the imposing castle looming behind him.

The tall man stood little way above them, on higher ground, his backdrop a concluded battle of massacred people, men and horse corpses littering the scene. The man looked down to the boy but said nothing for a time.

The man Ceinind took some steps towards the tall man, saying something for a considerable amount of time to him.

He looked at the boy again, and then his piercing eyes fixed on Aedre before addressing Ceinid. He stood by the boy, around them sream coiled upwards from the dead bodies of the dead: of men and women. And children. It was clear the Norse were bent on extermination of all on this plain.

Aedre could see the bodies of the two young children belonging to the womam who had been so kind to her, both huddling together, their bodies run though. She shudderex.

"You found my nephew," he intoned, not taking his eyes off Aedre.

"Yes, my king." It was Ceinid who answered.

"And you?" He spoke to Aedre now, his face fixed, but his eyes, rather than inviting her to respond, seemed to fix her mouth closed.

"He rescued me, Uncle Aed," the boy answered for her. "He found me on tbe battlefield."

"And you say you found him, General Ceinid?"

"Hiding in a boat." He held aloft Aedre's father's sword. So, this was the king, Aedre thought. They were in Pictish territory so he must be king of the Picts. Yet, with his long black hair, like that of his general and his set leather dattle dress he looked more like a Gael, like the ones she had seen in the books she was not supposed to read by the Lindisfarne monks who had charted the histories of the peoples of Alba, which she had found one day in Bebbanburg's chapel and read voraciously.

Did he recognise her? It was possible that ge would recognise her father's sword, soiled with te red liquor of the enemy. Her father had been the Lord of Northumbria: perhaps this king had met him, treated with him; done battle against or alongside him.

"That is my father's sword!" Aedre's voice sang over the picturesque landscape - if the picture was one of destruction, annhilation and devastation.

King Aed took slow steps towards Aedre, the sullied weapon in his hand. But it was the boy next to him, whose life she had saved who spoke.

"What is your name?" He looked keenly at her, as if eyeing a particularly interesting stone found on a beach. Aedre did not answer immediately. It was folly to confide her real name of course. Her mind ranged through many. And then, as if thunderstruck, her kind rested on a name from records in Bebbanburg chapel.

"Osthryth," said Aedre.

"Your family?"

"There." She pointed past King Aed, to the dead Lincolnshire family. "We were going to Iona."

"No-one us going to Iona," said the king's general, softly. "There is no-one left, child. You will come with us."

"No!" Aedre screamed, more for herself, than any of the destruction around her. Culdees would surely correspond with Lindisfarne about this massacre - some of its monks were dead too - and being walled up inside a Pictish castle would be a fast way of her uncle locating her.

"Then, you can go, girl," Ceinid said, dismissively. A weight lifted from Aedre's shoulder. But, Constantine rushed to her.

"No!" Constantine shouted. "No!"

"Then you come with us," Aed declared. "You mean something to the boy, I dare say. Stay with him, for now. You are to live in the kitchen - we can never have many maids." He nodded to Ceinid to indicate she shoukd be taken with them. When my nephew desires your company, you will find you.

"Here." Aed handed Aedre back the bloody sword that was once her father's, bestowing on her the job of her life. "You are to defend him."

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30th October 899

It was raining still as Osthryth hauled her aching body towards the thick, heavy gates which guarded the fortress-palace of Dunnottar, the seat of the King of Alba.

Had it been mild, had she arrived in daylight, fresh, energetic and no newborn within her clothing Osthryth may have been inclined to reminisce. But rain was pouring down her back and the lanolin-coated fleece was protecting the child from a drenching.

Osthryth looked up and, because her hand was cold from the downpour, trembled as she reached for the door.

"Who is it that demands audience with the king?" The guard at the gates of the fortress and royal palace demanded and, on seeing her, laughed.

Under Aedre's tunic, under her shirt, the bairn shifted in her sleep, sighing quietly into her chest. Asleep, thought Osthryth, contented. Osthryth's mind flicked immediately to her mother as she thought about the events of the last week: Uhtred threatening to tell Edward that she had been seen at Cripplegate; the threat of job loss.

"He's a bastard," Finan had said, stroking her hair. Had it only been three days ago? It was the last time they had slept together; she felt content when she was with Finan, somehow all gathered in, like an autumn harvest, and now here she was, leaving him again.

She had given the boat captain the silver, Finan's silver, the piece he had once given her to help her go north. And Osthryth had gone north, up the coast of East Anglia and of Northumbria. They passed Bebbanburg, and Lindisfarne, had arrived at Culdees, then crossed to Dunnottar.

Her knocking had brought the attention of someone, a guard, whose face glowered through the wooden hatch guarded with metal bars shot open. He looked as drenched as Aedre felt.

"I say you are nothing but a peasant woman begging for crusts for your bastard," the guard began. He eyed her appearance: smutted face, burnt hair and singed clothes. It was true; she hadn't had time to wash. But she had had time to take her silver and gold. That had got them this far. Osthryth's hand flexed around the hilt of her sword. Not Faedersword; not his best: that had been lost in a on the field of battle on the day he died and Uhtred was lost. But her sword, earned truly. It sang well.

"I am Aedre," she said, whispering sharply now. The guard strained to hear.

"Eedree?" the man repeated, glowering over her.

"Constantine's companion. I saved the his life from the Danes when St Cuthbert was brought," she added, then narrowed her eyes. "You were there, I recall."

The guard shifted, uncomfortably, then asked, "Who should I say calls, my lady?"

Aedre looked up. Twenty two years had not been enough for this predator-bird-like fortress. And she was here, fleeing to the one man who wad more like her brother than Uhtred. Or, given their past, perhaps not.

She waited, as the cold, October rain leaked through every gap it could. The baby girl beneath her jerkin was awake now and on the hunt for food.

Osthryth, of the Idings. She had learned about this princess, of the family of Oswald, the lost saint, who married Coelred in Mercia. The Mercians had always believed she was a spy, and was killed on suspicion of being such.

She gave her life to Mercia. It had been over a hundred years ago. Osthryth still remembered when Beocca told her about the princess, sitting as he had been on a low stool near a warming fire, on a night not much different to the one which was soaking her through now. Princess Osthryth had been loyal, and misunderstood, Beocca had explained.

But it had been Osthryth who had buried her uncle Oswald's body, having revovered as much of it as she could after it had been dismembered in battle against the Mercian king Penda near Welsh border, and sacrilege performed upon it.

Osthryth had taken it to Lincolnshire, to the monks at Bardney. It was long believed that if his body was recovered it would begin the process of creating a united Saxon realm.

"I am Osthryth. Tell the king - " she rushed to the grille, glaring at the guard. "Tell King Domhnall that it is Osthryth who requests to - "

To...what was she going to request. She loosened her jerkin straps as the baby wriggled, letting the leather buckles hang beside her. The baby rooted, and her tiny mouth hit its target.

" - to resume my role as decreed by his Royal Highness." The guard sneered. Osthryth slammed her feet onto the ground and bore down on the door.

"Osthryth of Bebbanburg!" Osthryth clarified. "Tell the kin I have come to make him a land bargain," she added, as the guard slid the panel across with force.

For, a bag of silver would not keep a child 'til she was an adult: Osthryth knew she needed a home for young Aedre. So there was only one more thing that she could offer. Something that King Domhnall mac Caustin Uí Àlpin wanted dearly.  



	4. Constantine

Reviews are much appreciated and really do make my day :)

88888888

4 Summer 878

"I'll get beaten if I bring back rotten herring!" Osthryth called down to Gert, the fisher-boat's boy at the quay from the lower wall of the castle. "Take them back and bring fresh ones!"

The flaxen-haired boy stared up at Osthryth, his big round eyes staring at her, disappointed.

"Bring better fish and I'll come down." Osthryth called, then darted away from the wall and hid in the shadow.

It was not true that she would be beaten; if the cook so much as laid a hand on her she would hit him back.

But Glymrie, the huge, bad-tempered man, had never raised as much as his voice to her from the first day King Aed's general Ceinid had deposited her with the servants, her father's sword in the cellars with the rest of the armoury.

Within an hour of the battle ening, with vicrory to the Picts, Osthryth had been taken into Dunnottar castle by Ceinid, shown her duties, her corner to sleep in and a plate of food. Osthryth had found that near her corner a loose floorboard led to an underground spring, a loose stone at the bottom of which was large enough to hide her silver.

That had been over a year ago. It had taken Osthryth several weeks of sleepless nights to realise that she was not being followed, nor would be found out as a missing girl from the noble family at Bebbanburg.

It had taken her a few more to speak to the servants - Osthryth had kept silent for a long time, listening to the words within the castle, so like English, yet, just out if reach.

At first, many thought she was dumb, but Glymrie and the woman in charge of the household, Ealasaid, found she picked things up quickly, and in no time she was speaking the Pictish tongue and, by listening to the nobility, by finding little places to hide and observe the happenings in her new home, Gaidhlig too.

For, Osthryth soon found out, when she had been elevated to position of companion to Constantine, the royal family, though Pictish, followed the Dal Riadan traditions, as established by Constantine's grandfather Ceinid mac Alpin, and had accepted the throne when no suitable ruler presented themselves, the last being killed by the Norwegian blade of Ivarr the Boneless.

It had taken Osthryth several weeks to become accustomed to her life in Dunnottar, the monastery of Culdees over the river an ever-constant reminder that she had fled Bebbanburg, and she forced herself into invisibility, performing her duties, however tedious, however horrible without fuss or favour. She had escaped once, and it was only a matter of time, if things got difficult, that she could plan her escape again.

The castle cook was ever her defender, and took her side against Ealasaid if ever there was a dispute, and Osthryth liked him. She did as he told her, and never complained even when there were gizzards to pull from game birds, and he fed her well, and rewarded her with time off, or gifted her easy jobs.

Osthryth's favourite of these was going to market half a mile up the Dee early in the morning, when the mist was lifting from the river and traders and merchants were just opening.

She walked amongst the ordinary folk, listened to their speech, smell the vapours from manufacturers, leather workers, blacksmith and herbal stores; she talked to traders, merchants, men and women alike, including the folk whose tongue spoke words of a forbidden following, that of the earth and sky and sea.

When she'd asked Glymrie what it was, he told her in his gruff manner, that it was paganism, not that of the Norse and Danes, but of long ago in the land, and that to practise it was forbidden by the king. "It is against Christianity," he had told her. "They have resisted God's word; they are damned."

Osthryth was also free to read, as she used to at Bebbanburg, in Dunnottar's chapel, delighting in finding in books the same words, the same tales, of the Romans, and the coming of her people, those from Jutland and Frisia, of Angle-land and Saxony. In these texts, Osthryth found, though the Latin words told the stories, a translation in Cymric existed. And, Osthryth realised, these Latin missives, letters and historical accounts were shared between monastery, cathedral and chapel as holy people gossipped with one another from kingdom after kingdom. Somewhere, Osthryth imagined, comfortingly, if Father Beocca was still alive, he might he reading the same history just then as she was.

Osthryth could make out a little, but of what she could read, the text made it clear the godly Gaels, Picts and Cymric should turn their efforts to the barbarian pagans - the Angles and Saxons - and all should be done to eliminate their kind.

But Osthryth's favourite time of the week was when the Frisian fishing traders, who brought the castle its fish, tied up at the castle's harbour. Since English and Frisian were so alike, Osthryth had found she could converse without difficulty with them, and asked them about the weather, their catches, other places they traded.

Ulf, the older boy of the two, who were learning their trade from their fathers, had once scared her by shouting at her when she she had been sent back with fish that the cook said was rotten; the second time, when Ulf reached out to grab her, Osthryth had charged at him, thrown him onto the seaweedy stone of the harbour and given him a black eye. She had had to be pulled off by his father and his uncle, who laughed at the boy for being hit by a girl. From high up in tbe ramparts the royal guards had laughed too, at her ferocity.

Since then, Ulf had refused to land at the harbour if Osthryth was there and Gert, the younger boy had been sent with the castle's fish.

Gert liked Osthryth and would have given her the fish free if she'd have asked, just to have spoken to her, something which Osthryth found amusing, and caused Constantine to sulk.

Constantine, who spent most of his day when he was not studying or practising sword skills followed Osthryth around, much to her annoyance, chose the days she had spent in Gert's easy company to enact cruel tricks on her.

He would steal her food and giving it to the horses; he would throw his night bucket at her or foul a passage with it that she had spent the afternoon cleaning. He would perenially lean over railings and around corners pulling her hair.

His cousin Domnhall had once found her shut out of the castle one cold, rainy night and, when he had persuaded her to talk, got out of her that it had been Constantine who had ordered her outside to collect his sword that he'd left out, and had barred the gate, laughing at her as she got drenched.

But, spending more time with Constantine was the reason she had been summoned to see the king one early summer's morning.

Osthryth had been terrified as Ceinid took her to the throne room. Had they found out that she was really Aedre of Bebbanburg, and had they struck a deal with her uncle Aelfric to have her back?

But instead, she was being withdrawn her from many serving and cleaning duties, except for help in the kitchens. Instead, the black-haired, pale-faced king looked at Osthryth with his grey eyes and then at his son, Constantine, while Aed's heir, Domhnall, explained that she was to come whenever Constantine required, and would have a room of her own close to his.

"And you should teach him the sword skills that have been taught to you," Domhnall laughed, as King Aed dipped his head in acknowledgement of these decrees.

And so she had. It was not as taxing as scrubbing, cooking, sewing and cleaning, and she had been given a new set of clothes, leather, with new wool undergarments, but it certainly was not as quiet.

But, despite all this, Osthryth could not shake the shadow of suspicion that she felt on occasions, when a conversation between two nobles, or a noble and a monk disappeared around a corner as she approached.

As the months wore on, summer gave way to a mellow autumn and a crisp winter, and Osthryth reasoned that if she was to be used in a trade with her uncle, it would be done by now.

"I'm coming, Gert!" called Osthryth, from the balustrade's crenulations that morning. From the stone steps, Constantine pulled a face, then threw a stone down to the fisher-boy, which hit him hard on the cheek.

Osthryth had got down to the harbour just as Gert let up a howl in pain, his blue eyes reddening and filling with tears as he held a hand to his face. By the time she had got across to Gert, he had boarded the fishing boat, leaving no fish behind.

"Why did you do that?!" demanded Osthryth, as Constantine sloped down the steps, his mouth curved into a smirk, like his father the king.

"He wants to touch you," Constantine complained, "he wants to kiss you."

"He talks to me, and likes to touch my hair, " Constantine," Osthryth protested. "He is only a boy."

"A boy who wants to hump you," Constantine grumbled, moodily, his pale grey eyes fixed on her. Osthryth laughed, combing her golden blonde hair vehind her ears. "No-one will do that: I will kill them first!" Then she scowled back at Constantine. "Now, I haven't got any fish to take to Glymrie." She lashed out at him. Constantine, who only just moved out of the way in time to avoid the strike.

"You have to come with me," Constantine demanded, looking triumphant in the direction of the retreating fishing boat. "Domhnall wants to speak to you".

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Down the dark stone passages Osthryth strode, following Constantine, his black hair whipping behind him like a snake. They passed the stones within the castle's walls, on which the strange markings of swirl animals and men in armour fighting a battle had been carved.

Pictish writing, Constantine had once sneered at her. I can read it; you cannot. But Osthryth had stopped to look at them many times, tracing the patterns with her fingers. Ealasaid had mocked her when Osthryth had told her the reason why she was so long cleaning the passage and had explained that reading the pictures was a case of looking at them and remembering the stories of that history, in a rhyme or poem or song.

Why did Domhnall want to see her? Osthryth wondered as Constantine crissed the inner courtyard towards the Royal rooms, clearly enjoying her discomfort. Maybe he was angry that she had continued Constantine's battle when the boy had stumbled. That would explain Constantine's triumph.

"You have skill with that blade of yours," Ceinid, the head of King Aed's household guard had told, after she had come across the practise battle between Domhnall and Constantine on her way back from the market. Osthryth scooped up Constantine's blade which had skittered over the stones when Constantine had stumbled and missed in a parry.

"Go on," Domhnall had encouraged, as she held it as she had been taught, by Seobhridht, to the amusement of the Bebbanburg household guard and to the disapproval of Father Beocca.

Osthryth had deflected, ducked and moved fast, fast enough to tire the heir to the throne, as Ceinid looked on amused, and Constantine scowled at her.

"You should teach Constantine," Domhnall had told her, and Ceinid had asked her who had taught her.

"My father," Osthryth had lied. "Though we were poor, he believed I, and my brother should be taught the same. We both could die at the hands of the Danes and I should have the skill to keep myself alive."

"Your father sounds like a good man," Ceinid had told her, kindly. "It is a pity that your family died at the Great Battle."

But he hadn't, of course, Osthryth had to remind herself. Though she kept up the pretence as if it were truth, when she went to bed at night Osthryth always prayed for Uhtred, for her baby brother - her Uncle's child when he married her mother - and for Father Beocca, praying to God for their souls, for their lives. For her to see them again.

"Come on," Constantine sneered, holding open the door to the royal rooms. Osthryth barely came to this part of the castle and, through the open door the opulence of goods from near and far off lands. She might have known Constantine's manners would have come at a cost. As she stepped over the doorframe he stuck his foot out and Osthryth went sprawling on the hard stone floor.

"Don't speak to that boy again!" Constantine insisted, imperiously, and Osthryth struggled to her feet ahd hurried after him as he aporoached the priceless inner door made of dense ebony wood.

Osthryth had tried to teach Constantine the skills she knew. If he turned up at all at the appointed time, the royal prince would spend most of the time sulking or, if he did try to fight her, gave up within a few minutes.

As such, he would rarely win and would sulk at her, and trick her spitefully if she won, as she invariably did, his favourite one being to shut her out on the window ledge of his room having by ordering Osthryth to close the shutters.

The first time, Osthryth had nearly frozen to death as it had begun to snow, and she had let him win the battles a few times. But her lack of effort had been noticed by Ceinid, who had reported this to Domhnall. The usually even-tempered Domhnall had shouted at Osthryth for a long time, reminding her of her place and threatened to turn her out of the castle if she would not fight properly.

It had been he who, one sleety night, had discovered Constantine's trick and had beaten him for his unkindness before taking a shivering Osthryth in, the truth of why she had avoided fighting coming out, and Constantine got another lamming.

The duelling had continued, with Osthryth offering excellent opposition to Constantine. But the boy, a year younger than Osthryth, was too often bettered in the beginning, by a swift and cunning Osthryth.

Yet, as he grew, Constantine's strength turned the battles to his favour and he delighted in, if Osthryth felt tired, or her aches in her lower stomach and back had caused her to be less lithe than she would ordinarily be, pressing his victory hard. Ceinid would intervene, when he hit her in defeat, and Domhnall would be told, his displeasure at Constantine's dishonourable behaviour being heard through even Dunnottar's three feet thick walls.

Constantine banged hard on the thick dark wood of the throne-room's door. It opened immediately. Osthryth felt self-conscious in the presence of the splendour within. Her hair was dishevelled from the wind by the quay, and she was wearing her old clothes, in which she did her household jobs. By contrast, the throne room was panelled in the same thick ebony wood, its richness picked put by tall candles which flashed off the rich wool fabric that hung around the throne.

And there, in the very centre of the room, Constantine's father, King Aed of the Picts, stared at her.

She sighed, fear seeping into her now. Did he suspect her? Osthryth worried, as her pulse quickened as her heart-rate increased and she lowered her head deferentially, as a peasant might, trembling and shaking, trying to display as much fear as she could, most of it genuine.

"We are given to underand that you oppose my son in his sword-work?" Osthryth could not help but look up, her eyes resting on those of the king, the same pale grey eyes resting on her as Constantine's did, as if stripping layers from her mind and examining her very darkest and deepest secrets. She nodded.

"Osthryth." Aed spoke her name slowly. "You may be wondering why I asked to see you." Osthryth said nothing, but dipped her head and looked at the floor, bowing to the king of the Picts.

"Constantine, I am ashamed to say, does not make any effort to learn your excellent skills - nor learn much else - a habit that has come to the attention of my general Ceinid."

Here it came, Osthryth thought, feeling fear run through her. She flexed her left hand. Though long healed, she was conscious of the arrow-wound, which had penetrated right through and left Osthryth unable to close it fully and a scar on both sides.

"I understand that you retrieved your father's sword from him before he and your family were killed at the Great Battle last year." Osthryth continued to loook down.

"Yes, your grace." Osthryth spoke softly. Her father? What did Aed know about him?

Perhaps...? No! Was the king really not confronting her about being Aedre? Her mind had been filling with plans of escape - to get back to the kitchens...to her corner when she'd been a servant... reach into the spring...retrieve her silver...wait for Gert's family and pay her way out of Alba...

"You fought without fear when that Norseman threatened Constantine - I know," he added, as Osthryth made to deny it. "I saw you."

"That Norseman was the brother of Ivarr the Boneless, of tbe name Sigurd - so - " Aed interjected, a smile playing at the corners of his lips, in the same way as when Constantine sneered at her, " - you know of whom I speak?"

Osthryth bowed her head again. "Yes, sir."

"The Norse threaten again. You, Osthryth, are a bright, you learn fast and you have superb sword skill for a child of your age. Soon we will face them in battle. Constantine - " he looked across to his son, who returned his father's gaze, "must be ready to fight. You will by his side from the moment he awakes to the moment he sleeps. You will attend his lessons, eat at his table and, most importantly, you will teach my son the swordwork that you know. In this aspect, you have authority over him."

Osthryth hesitated. She was to teach her unwilling tormentor all she knew about fighting? She looked across to Constantine, who was looking sullenly at his father.

Constantine could fight, that was the thing. He was strong, and getting stronger the more he grew. Yet he lacked the experience to anticipate blows, a skill which could turn the fortune of any warrior and worse, lacked motivation.

"Then, it is agreed," Domhnall confirmed, as his eleven-year-old cousin began to storm in protest. "You will begin tomorrow, Osthryth."

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A month after being appointed Constantine's constant companion, a storm, breaking the heat of the night, rumbled across the sky. From her tiny room, Osthryth opened her drowsy eyes.

She did not mind the tasks, eating meals with the sullen prince nor lessons with him, and it had been quite satisfying instructing him how to hold his sword and how to swing it, as she herself had been taught, knowing she could shout at him to behave and not get into trouble herself. But, by heaven, the days were tiring.

That day, for example, as well as instructing him on planning an attack, Osthryth had also been in the chapel where a monk, Eoghan, had taught Constantine the history of Pictland and discussed the country's allies.

Eochaid, a cousin of Aed, was king of the Strathclyde Cymric, Osthryth learned, and that as well as related to Constantine, Bridei, King of the Picts, had defeated Ecgfrith Iding, two hundred years before, then married his sister.

Osthryth was amazed, and more amazed still to think that she and Constantine were distantly related.

"Then you will be king of the Picts and Gaels?" Osthryth had asked Constantine, as Eoghan retreated to fetch another manuscript.

"I will be," Constantine replied, his voice, for once, reasonable. "But there is trouble. My uncle's bastard son Giric claims Pictland. His mother was a Pictish lady of Bridei's line, and since my father was Dal Riadan, a lot of people would like Giric to be king rather than Domnhall, or me." Constantine touched the manuscript.

"Yet, my father wanted what his father wanted: my grandfather wanted to rule over all of Alba, a ling of kings. He got his chance fir the Pictish throne when the Norse invaded: only the Dal Riadans, tbe Gaels, have the resources to fight - to keep on fighting - we have support of the church." Constantine picked up the manuscript and traced the letters with his fingers.

"Strathclyde and Pictland have too many heathens. We Gaels have always sworn, on oath to St. Columba, to destroy out heathen practises, groves burned, temples pulled down, and so on, under pain of death. Yet, too many live amongst us, in plain sight, hiding their resistance to Christ. What?" Constantine added, scornfully. Osthryth was staring at him, open-mouthed. "You think I am a dolt and don't know anything?"

"Try applying the same to your sword," Osthryth chided, and was rewarded with the book slammed down onto her arm. This resulted in Osthryth grabbing Constantine by the forearms, throwing him to the floor, where he fought to he free, and they'd rolled across the flagstone floor, whereupon the monk Eoghan had thrown a jar of manuscript water over them both.

With days like those, it was no wonder that Osthryth found herself closing her eyes as soon as her head touched the straw mattress, dreaming of nothing until the next day came in a flash.

The thunder rolled again, louder this time, and accompanied by a distant crackle of lightning.

It was then she heard it, a sound not unlike a distressed cat might make, yowling and calling as if in pain.

Osthryth opened her eyes again and sprung out of bed, padding over to her door, clad in her cotton undergarments, long on her arms and legs, which she eolled up to save her falling on them. In the corridor, the noise sounded louder, and she crept, arm raised, ready to fight.

The sound got louder as she reached Constantine's room, and Osthryth put a hand to the iron ring that opened the latch.

The noise came again, more pitiful this time, finishing with a yell as lightning flashed overhead followed immediately by a roll of thunder. Osthryth opened the door and looked around, alert.

Last time she had heard noises in the night, Constantine had been hiding and had locked her in the privy for a day.

But this time, Constantine was not hiding. Under the covers, a sobbing ball cried put again as the storm exploded overhead once more.

Osthryth rushed over to him, sitting next to him and putting out a hand. The boy felt out for her, then took her hand, pushing back the covers little by little. His face was a mess of tears and terror, and he shrank as lightning and then thunder seemed to demand entry to his room. Osthryth felt her heart go out to the boy, so sullen and sour most of the time, he was still only a child.

She pulled the blankets down on one side of Constantine, and slipped in next to him, still holding his hand, saying nothing except, "Oidhche mhath," quietly by his ear - good night. It was next to each other hand-in-hand that Ealasaid the head of the household staff found them the next morning.

88888888

"I will say, sir," Osthryth said apprehensively, as summer drew to its highest, "as yiu habe asked me to be truthful, hat I do not think Constantine is ready to fight. At least, not ready to fight and live".

She had been instructed to report back to the head of the household guard on a weekly basis, and she had been taken aback when Ceinid had asked her, bluntly.

He was, Osthryth felt, doing well. But Constantine was only eleven - it was madness for his uncle to have taken him out on the battlefield the year before, the time she had saved him. It wouldn't have happened at Bebbanburg.

But this was Dunnottar, not Bebbanburg. While her former home was impenetrable, with just a wharf open to the sea to catch a ration of fish when under seige, Dunnottar was at the centre of a community, of the monastery and the village. The Norse came without warning, and destroyed everything. Constantine did not have luxury of being ready - he had to fight, or he would die anyway.

"Can he do it?" asked General Ceinid The young man had his long black Gaelish hair plaited in one long braid. He looked at Osthryth earnestly.

"No," Osthryth said. "But I am sure you will tell the king that he is."

"Are you ready?" Ceinid's question surprised her. "When you fought last year, was your ferocity an attack out of fear? Or, could you do it again?"

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How they pulled it off, Osthryth cound not tell. Constantine was the weak link, where the plan would unravel, if it ever did.

"I'll talk to him," Ceinid said, his black hair catching the light. "I will explain that you are fighting in his stead as a model. He will understand that."

"He is strong," Osthryth emphasised, rubbing her left forearm, where he had legged her up two days ago and trod on it, hard.

"But he cannot anticipate his enemy. He is too young, long I have known it. He is not yet twelve. And you are...?"

"Thirteen next harvest." Ceinid stared at her.

"Twelve...? Why, I would have given you to be fourteen, or fifteen!" Ceinid lowered his head, looking at the glow on her golden hair as the morning sun warmed it.

Osthryth turned away, looking over the battlements. Where would the battle be? More importantly, when? Aed would have his spies, no doubt.

Why was she doing this? It was a question Osthryth had asked herself many times over the last few months. She could go - she could leave. Why hadn't she?

"Let us go over the plan again," Osthryth said.

"You will bring Constantine to the armoury, he will dress," Ceinid said, slowly. "I will bring him to the kitchens. He will take off his armour and you shall wear it. I will explain that he has the best vantage point to watch you." A skein of geese soared overhead. Osthryth looked up.

"You will take the armour and dress, you will take his sword - "

"My sword," Osthryth pressed. Ceinid nodded in acquiescence.

"You will dress and take your sword, and you will flank Domhnall."

And fight, Osthryth thought. And, just then, the image of her brother, holding aloft Seobhridht's head dissolved into her mind.

He would be fighting now, somewhere. He would be vanquishing the Danes, Osthryth was certain. Osthryth tightened her right hand around Faedersword, and to King Aed's general nodded.

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It was only one short day until uncertain peace shifted to bloody war. Standing beside Domhnall, the king before them, the Norse, led by huge warrior, long blonde hair from under his helmet charged towards them. Osthryth held her sword tightly, stiffness spreading in her limbs. She shook them out, flexing her damaged left hand as it clutched Constantine's and blinked in the warly morning fog.

Osthryth never remembered battles, just snippets like a dream. As the warriors came past her, she moved as if a her limbs were feathers, as she ducked and weaved. She strode out with the nobility, sword high, as horses streamed past her, as if solidifying from the mist itself, Domhnall swiping at body after body as they swiped down at the infantry, before sliding down from their steed to continue organised death on foot.

Before her, men charged, howling like the fury of the sídhe filling the foggy arena. Some were Aed's; some were that of his kin, Eochaid, King of Strathclyde. And Osthryth stepped forward, into the running line of a Norseman with wild blonde hair, without even a look back to the Culdees monks, who had lined the riverbank.

Monks, fifty or sixty of them, charged into the fray, and behind them, the golden heads of the Strathclyde Welsh shone through the smirr. Aed's ambition to sieze her family's territory of Bernicia was unbounded, Osthryth knew, and, were it not for the Norse, he would have sought to fulfil this Pictish-held ambition held, generation after generation.

She could cut and run, Osthryth considered, as she fought two Norse, before one becane engaged with two of Aed's household guard.

But, if she did that, she would never find Uhtred; she would never see Benbbanburg again, free of the tyranny of Aelfric. She would never even make it off the field of battle.

Hours later, and somehow, the miracle had happened: the Picts had forced the Norse off the field, the Strathclyde Cymric chasing them towards the coast. Two lines of attack had been enough to confuse in the fog.

Some had staggered into boats, seeking help from Northumbria, from the new king in Cumbraland, Guthred, whose reign was sanctioned by the Danes.

But King Aed returned and had losses too. Osthryth scuttled, as soon as she was able, to the kitchen, whereupon she removed Constantine's clothing before kneeing him in the stomach.

The astonished boy looked at her, betrayed. But Ceinid, who had now also returned, explained he needed to be shaken and dishevelled on meeting his uncle, and he nodded, accepting as Ceinid removed her armour, looking in horror at a wound to her shoulder and leg.

"I've had worse," Osthryth said, thinking of her pierced hand: her uncle had sanctioned that. She tried to wave away the general, but the warrior would not have it.

"Be in the throne room in half an hour," he instructed Constantine who, Osthryth realised, was shaking, whether with fear, or anger, as Ceneid led her to the kitchen.

Ignoring Glymrie's raging at his kitchen being commandeered as a makeshift hospital and, in turn, fussing over Osthryth too, Ceinid pulled off her leather clothing, and then tearing off her wool undergarments.

Osthryth stood there in nothing but her boots as he bathed her arm and her leg with water infused with precious salt. She shivered, though it was warm, feeling shame that the man's eyes were upon her nakedness. Ceinid seemed to sense this, and was swift, before leading her to the armoury, giving her new clothes.

"You fought valiantly," Ceinid said, pushing her arm carefully into her new jacket. That meant a lot coming from him. When she'd struggled into everything, she sagged, tiredness overcoming her.

"Go to the throne room too," Ceinid instructed, his blue eyes twinkling as he smiled at her. "Stay in the shadows, listen...learn. There is a plot against Aed, one to install a Pictish king once again."

Osthryth felt her mind consider that day. The plot, often debated. What if Eochaid had, instead of turning on the Norse, had turned, out of their river boats, on the Picts, or rather the Gaelish royals who held the Pictish throne? It only took one traitor to create a stranglehold, such stranglehold that, Osthryth knew, would never work at Bebbanburg. Her old home was built to withstand siege warfare. It was easy to see, with support of the nobles that the Gaelish king Aed could be overthrown.

And she found, as she dragged her tired body across the courtyard, that far from running, she had made a tiny difference at Dunnottar, in the land of the Picts, which had inadvertently sheltered her. Was this, in fact, what loyalty felt like?

The warriors who had fought that day were ranged in front if the king who, on his raised throne, could see them to offer words of praise of their skill and their victory.

Osthryth peeped around the ebony doors, noticing first the men, there to hear of the glories of the day, of deeds done and those who had distinguished themselves.

By Aed's side Constantine stood, his mouth sulky, but his eyes ranging the warriors, a kind of pleasure shining there as Domhnall handed out treasure.

Aed looked ill, Osthryth thought, as he continued to talk, shifting uncomfortably on his well-padded throne and it seemed like an effort for him to talk.

The people she knew at the market, those who guarded their beliefs tight to them would have a tincture that would relieve him, or cure him: Bach most certainly would, as she had known, when Osthryth had found her.

The blood that was distressing her. Bach, a tiny woman had taken her hand and to the back of her shop had told her gently that the blood was not death, as she feared, but life. It showed she could be a mother.

"I never will be," Osthryth declared as Bach showed her the hedgerow leaves she needed. The silver haired woman laughed.

"One day you will. A mother whose children will enthrall the world."

"...glory must surely go to my nephew, Domhnall and to the warrior Fionnlai of my household guard. For the one known as Ivarr the Boneless is now lifeless on the battlefield!"

A roar went up, which lasted for quite a long time. The hated Norseman, scourge of almost every kingdom on the island of Britain, would never again ravish their land.

"And to my son," Osthryth then heard. The king had apparently moved on with his honours. Osthryth peered around to get a glimpse of the boy, who was standing there, still sullen-faced. He was taking all that was being heaped on him, about his charge, the numbers dead, the leading out he had done.

That she had done, Osthryth told herself. Not that she cared for praise. But, for the first time she realised Constantine might feel betrayed at being denied tbe chance to stand by his father's side.

A hand on her shoulder caused Osthryth to jump. It was Domhnall. He smiled down to Osthryth.

"You fought well, friend," he said, stooping to her level. "For that we are grateful; for that Seoras is grateful - " he nodded towards another warrior, black haired, sporting a new slash to his face. He raised his ale in toast to Domhnall. Behind him, Constantine sat by his father, drinking ale too, a grumpy expression on his features.

"It is not your fault, Osthryth," he consoled, seeing her face fall too. "The truth is, today shows how unreay he is for battle."

"I?" Osthryth pretended. "You believe I was in the battle?"

"I know it was you who fought today in Constantine's stead," Domhnall said, warmly. "I tried to keep the worst from you."

"But, I had Constantine's shield!"

"And your fathers sword," Domhnall added, smiling. "You should feel nothing but pride that you have served us well.  
Constantine needs more time to grow.

"I am sure he will make a fine warrior, given a little time." Osthryth swallowed. She did not feel it right to join in the celebration for this battle; she had not earned it honestly. And her sinews were screaming at her to make her way to bed, for healing sleep."

"Constantine is impetupus, and spoiled. The simple truth is not all men become what they hope to become, or what others hope they will become."

"He will," Osthryth said. "He has understanding, he knows people and how to charm them. He thinks a fight and a battle should come easy." Osthryth hesitated. "And I don't think I am the right person to show him, to take time with him, someone he respects."

"That boy respects no-one!" snorted Domhnall, swigging his ale.

"He respects you," Osthryth said. Domhnall smiled at her.

"There will be a celebration tonight, a feast. King Eochaid and his warriors will be there. You should come, Osthryth."

"I will be coming," Osthryth laughed. "I am serving your tables."

88888888

In the end, Glymrie did not make her work for long. A few hours in and he ordered her away, much to the disgust of the other serving girls, who whispered lurid things behind their hands.

The royals of both houses, those of Alpin and Dyfnwal, ate and drank copiously. King Aed did his best to look exalted at their victory, yet to Osthryth still seemed like a man in pain. On his right sat Domnhall, sharing quip and anecdote; to Aed's left, Constantine sat sullenly, his face in his usual sulky expression.

A little further along the warriors sat, Ceinid in the centre looking proud and laughing with the men, holding a flagon of ale up a little in toast. As Osthryth poured more ale for them, he drew up a hand for tbe flagon and brushed hers.

It was the fire behind her, consuming Norse shields, Osthryth told herself, that had made her cheeks warm, nothing else.

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She awoke, some hours later, to a noise. Far away, up the corridor, something creaked. Osthryth lay with her eyes open in the darkness.

The celebration, that was it, Osthryth told herself, as a cheering erupted far away in the direction of the courtyard.

No, this was another sound, soft and rhythmical. Reluctantly, Osthryth drew back her blankets and moved as quietly as she could to her door, then onto the corridor.

Yes, it was coming from Constantine's room. Yes, it sounded as if he was crying. Osthryth felt her heart sink. If this was a trick, she would be most annoyed, especially as she was on cockle-collecting duty the next morning.

The sniffing stopped. Was it a trick? Hand close to the latch of Constantine's door, she made to turn the handle. But, all sounded still. Maybe she had been mistaken.

But no, there was no mistake. Constantine sounded as if he was quietly sobbing to himself. Osthryth turned the handle. It clicked.

"Leave me alone." His voice sounded tired, lost. Osthryth crept further in. In the moonlight, Osthryth saw his face, tear-coursed and crinkled in fury.

"Come here," he demanded, sliding the blanket away and stalking towards her. "Come and lie down next to me."

"Constantine, I'm tired," Osthryth said. He was angry, that she could tell.

"You must come," he insisted. "It is an order. You are my companion - the king said so: the moment I wake up til the moment I go to sleep. I am not asleep, Osthryth." He paced towards her. Osthryth folded her arms. Then, as Constantine approad, he held out a hand, pityingly. She took it and he led her to the bed.

"You must be tired after that long day of fighting." His voice was guarded, closed. "You will sleep here."

"Ok," Osthryth agreed, and she held out her other hand to take his. Instead, Constantine pushed her back onto the fleece-suffed mattress, his hands groping for her body. Osthryth struggled free and jumped to her feet.

"You absolute idiot!" Osthryth shouted. But the look on Constantine's face was one of bitterness.

"You took my honour away!" He paced towards her, but Osthryth was not easily moved. She stared back at the boy as he advanced on her. "You conspired to keep me from glory! With my father!"

"To keep you from death!" Osthryth shot back. "You will be a fine warrior some day, Constantine; you need to live to become that man!"

"I know what you did...Domhnall knows that you fought instead of me!"

"How?"

"He just does. He wants to hump you. So does Ceinid."

"No man will - " Osthryth began but Constantine put his hand over her mouth, his other around her back, wrestling her to his bed, pressing down onto her body with his.

Osthryth won their duels because she was swifter and could move fast to avoid blows, and evade attack, and because he didn't try. But Constantine was stronger. His hands sought under her woollen undergarments for her skin, his hand pressing onto the wound on her arm.

"Stop it, Constsntine!" Osthryth shouted, wrenching her arm free. "It hurts!" Vapours of spirit diffused around them as Constantine breathed in her face.

"Today it is my birthday. I am twelve, the right age to be a warrior. My father thought I fought superbly, and he drew me to him as a man, and he gave me tbe welcome water, that a man gets on the night of his first battle. I drank it, and feel so foolish!"

"Stop it, Constantine! Is this a trick? I don't like your tricks." Osthryth wriggled under his weight, but it was no use. It was clear what he intended to do, as his hand sought between her legs.

Osthryth had sworn she would fight anyone who wanted to hump her. But with Constantine, it was different. They were Osthryth and Constantine, who fought like a bag of cats.

She made herself relax. It doesn't hurt if you relax one serving girl had told another when she thought Osthryth was out of earshot.

Then something hard pressed inside her body, once, twice, several times. She felt nothing, apart from a little discomfort as Constantine pushed himself up and down, up and down.

Why did people choose this? It was no wonder men had to trick women into it. Her mind thought instead about the battle, and the power of the conquest and the glory of the victory.

88888888

It was still night when Osthryth woke from a sleep. She was next to Constantine, who was still asleep. She closed her eyes again. But the same insistent shaking of her shoulder, and Constantines, could not be ignored.

Fionnlai, Ceinid's deputy, in desperation to rouse them, then began pulling the blankets off them. His eyes narrowed when he saw Osthryth, for it was clear it was just Constantine he needex.

"You are to come," he told Constantine, who was pulling on his clothes. "Yes, be prepared. Your father requires you and Domhnall in the throne room."

"Come on, Osthryth!" Constantine chided, when she hadn't moved. "Come with me!"

88888888

But the king was not on the throne waiting for Constantine. Indeed, only his cousin, Domhnall was there.

"Your father wished to tell you himself," Domhnall said. "There is plan to get you and I out of the country and over to our aunt's kingdom.

Constantine stared at his cousin, probably through the effects of recovering from the welcome water. Then, he stared into the distance. Tbe sight before them made him gasp. Osthryth started too, at tbe sight of the king.

"My son," the king managed. "There is a plot, a plan to seize this throne." He shuffled over to Constantine, looking critically at Osthryth. "You are both to go, to Loch Lomond and the sea beyond, exiled from this kingdom. Máel Muire waits for you in Daoire, the hone of our beloved Saint Columba."

This was a shock. Surely a plot of such magnitude could have been anticipated and stopped?

"What about Osthryth?" Constantine demanded. "I'm not going without her." He seized Osthryth's arm and pulled her close, as if his life depended on her. "You said she was my guard...there are Uí Néill in Ireland! Domhnall said they are murdering bastards!"

"You are an Uí Néill yourself," the King smiled, amused, though with much pain on his face. "Several generations past. Your aunt Máel Muire is married to the king of the Uì Néill

"Then I'll need her!" Constantine persisted, as if his father's words were the justification to his decision. Aed looked at Osthryth critically, as if he was seeimg her for the first time in his life. His eyes lingering on her body, dressed as she was still in her wool under garments in the way her uncle used to sometimes, half judgmental with a sneer on his face. Then, he shifted in pain against his throne.

"And I want to come." Osthryth hissed the words by Constantine's shoulder. In response, he gripped her forearm tighter and stared back to his father, a steel in his eye which Osthryth would come to know much better: he was immoveable.

Clearly the king knew it too and nodded very slightly, almost imperceptibly and Constantine turned to Osthryth and for the first time since she had known him, smiled at her.  
"Get ready. Now. Prepare," said Domhnall. "We travel west, through the valley. We are going promptly, but leisurely, to make it seem as if we are on progress following our outstanding victory over the Norse. A boat awaits us beyond Loch Lomond." Domhnall turned and bent over her.

"Can you ride a horse, Osthryth?" Domhnall said, when she had all that she needed. There had been no time to get her silver, but she had at least got Faederswordfrom tbe armoury, stepping over the comatose bodies of tne household warriors, who were littering the guardhouse. She shook her head.

"No time to teach you now," said Domhnall. "Go, into the wagon cart." He lifted her up and she toppled into tbe straw, her father's sword clattering against her calves. "Constantine," Domhnall instructed, as the boy made to follow her, "You're with me."

It was the last time Constantine would ever see his father. That proto-dawn, where the morning sunlight was just a dull, grey gloaming of light, dull and wet, warm but soaking drizzle was an image which would stay with Osthryth for the rest of her life.

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30th October 899

Very quickly, but wuth no ceremony, the thick, iron-studded gates pulled open for Osthryth. Without hesitation, she stepped within the castle, her feet quickly regaining a muscle memory learned over months and years of service to King Aed.

And there she was, Osthruth thought. She must be ageing, or else it was that little tiny mite who, like a parasite, was draining her of goodness. Because, of course, Aed had died within months of their escape over to Maèl Muire of the Uí Néills. Domhnall was, now, of course the king.

Across the courtyard they went, the rain still pouring as her feet trod the wide cobblestones. Osthryth felt a fluttering in her stomach as she recalled Constantine's cousin, and she stumbled a little. The guard helped her to steady herself and guided her to the side door of the royal rooms.

Candles glowed brightly in holders as water poured out of Osthryth's clothes. The guard, however, merely stepped to one side of the torrent, and guided her to the door.

"The king is willing to grant you an audience, Osthryth of Bebbanburg, the guard said. "You must be important to him to bring him from his bed; hus health is failing."

"She is." A voice, one she recognised, echoed in the darkness. If she had not hesrd his voice, Osthryth might have not recognised King Aed's general. Not black hair now vraided at the back, but grey. Ceinid's eyes had, however, not lost their sparkle.

"Come," Ceinid invited, pushing open the thick, ebony door by its handle. He bent low, to her ear, and whispered, "May I say how happy I am to see you after all this time? Please." Ceinid raised his arm in an arc as he gestured towards the throne, but a weary man, whose black hair was curled and uneven.

"Osthryth?"

"Osthryth," she declared. "Osthryth Lackland." Constantine smiled that crooked smile of his, and instantly the years shrank away, and they were children again, she trying to clean or do a task, he tormenting her or pulling her hair.

"The king?" Osthryth sensed the little girl inside her jerkin had now gone to sleep and she little sighs of contentment she was feeling on tbe inside of her arm.

"Indisposed. He up the coast, preparing for a spring campaign. For the Norse who still plague Pictland."

"I still think of it as Pictland; Dal Riada and Pictland have been one for a long time now. No, there is just Alba and Strathclyde; Domnhall's cousin Owain rules there now. Eochaid's betrayal had been Domhnall's gain: Owain is forever in our debt."

"Owain? Who worked with the horses?" The wriggling in her shirt which had begun again stopped her from laughing

"What is it you want if Domhnall?" Constantine, his voice cold as the rain outside, got to the point, directly. "I am his depute; you can tell me, Osthryth. Or..." His mind considered. "I think Aedre suits you much better: Aedre Uhtredsdottir. If you require land, or contracts, in the disputed territory, you can take them, they are yours.

Their eyes locked. Unusually, it was Osthryth who turned away.

"I knew you'd come back to me,  
Aedre Uhtredsdottir of Bebbanburg."

"Uhtred, my brother, lives." Constantine appeared to be consider this. She had told him once before that she was the sister of Uhtref of Bebbanburg, shortly before she had fled for good. It seemed he had listened.

"Take them!" He passed a sheaf of parchments from his lap into Ceinid's, who brought them over, swiftly. "They are yours, I say; you are here, he is not. He has lands in Fairford, so I hear." Constantine looked at her. His eyes had not lost their sparkle, the same grey eyes, sparklingly bright like the Moray Firth on a early summer's morning.

"I have come with a proposal."

"A marriage proposal? For Domhnall?" Constantine laughed. "I am afraid he us already married. Though that union has brought forth no issue."

"For you, then, Constantine, as you deputise?"

"You do not know that Mairiead is dead? She did give issue; I have my son and daughters too. They will like you, Aedre."

Mairiead? Osthryth remembered how she hated that girl, for what she had fone, no matter that she was the niece of tbe High King of Ireland.

"No. A proposal that my claim on the land , the people the goods are to be yours."

"But, my dear Osthryth." Constantine got out of the throne, pacing over to her, mockingly, in the in the way Osthryth used to, when he was a boy and had found an inneresting animal in the grounds, or had found someone to trick. Half of her wanted him to hold her the way he used to. Then, she realised he was staring, at the movement in her tunic.

Osthryth unbuckled it, holding the little child, bare and cold, out for him to see. Constantine pursed his lips notbing for a time. Ceinid, flanking the throne, nodded to a guard.

"This child needs a home," Osthryth said clearly and firmly.

For, Osthryth had escaped, escaped Bebbanburg and Sven and Kjartan had taken Thyra instead. She had taken this baby's her mother from a fire set by men who hounded her for her faith. Thyra Ragnarsdottir's fate had been tied inextricably to that of Osthryth's.

Constantine looked at her again. He wanted to believe her, she could see that. But, of course, he knew her. He knew she could lie. Of course, they called it storytelling then, long ago.

"She needs a home; she needs a baptism." To her left, the guard to whom Ceinid had whispered handed Osthryth a fine, wool blanket. Unused to babies, she did her best, and nuzzled baby Aedre to her nipple once again, the tiny, copper-haired head showed itself as its owner got to work on the ready supply if milk.

"And you?" Constantine asked.

"I need to be here too. If you accept my proposal, then she would need me." Constantine looked at the baby. Then, his pale, grey eyes flickered up to Osthryth, coming close and holding onto her shoukders. He bent his head to the side of her face.

"You put a hole in my very soul when you disappeared...Osthryth," he managed. "I never thought I would see you again. Is tú mo ghrá, Osthryth."

She lowered her head. But she was not ashamed. The love Constantine meant was that bond of togetherness, of oneness. It was not the joy of happy equals that she had with Finan.

"And Domhnall has not yet managed a united Ulster-Alba kingdom?"

"The Uì Nèill would habe something to say to that," Constantine laughed. "And those bastard Ulaidm. But there is something in what you say. A united Alba. So." Constantine spoke to the head of young Aedre. "Your good mother, may God keep her, was persecuted for being a good Christian? I thought Wessex was Christian?" Osthryth felt her mouth open.

"Hvow did you know where I was?" Osthryth asked, choosing not to correct Constantine over Thyra's faith.

"I have as many spies as Alfred, maybe more. I knew you would go looking for Uhtred sooner or later."

"Alfred is dead."

"Yes," Constantine replied. "Aethelflaed is influential in Mercia, I understand. Edward is strong, though young." Osthryth shuddered a little at the mention of the forner aethling. She had made a habit of lying with heirs to the throne, as Constantine knew well.

But there was a breeze in tbe throne room. That be the cause of her quaking, Osthryth told herself, and she held young Aedre closer to her chest.

"So, what is she to be baptised?"

"Aedre," Osthryth said. "It suits her well."

"May I ask why?"

"I was sorry to hear about Mairiead dying," Osthryth lied, changingvthe subject. "You have a son?"

"Why this child?" Constantine asked, undeterred.

"She needs safety and care."

"Why?"

"God knows. I have no reasons." From her cloak, Osthryth held out a bag. Virtually untouched since she had found it in the skiff in Bebbanburg, and with more that she had added to its weight, she held out a huge bag of silver. Constantine took the bag, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.  
'Who is she?"

"No-one important. Her mother was burning to death in a house and I got her out. But she died. I took her to a healer and she birthed Aedre."

Osthryth's mind flashed back that night. Ula had told her to stand away but Osthryth had drawn the curtain back. She had held Thyra upright, her body over her shoulder and braced her body, which was automatically expelling the child, despite her unconsciousmess from the smoke and the heat, her body a mass of old, deep scars, one that pushed the little bundle she had in her arms out into the world.

Osthryth saw his gaze. Constantine did not helieve her. Yet, he weighed the bag in his hands. Little Aedre may be someone who is valuable to him. No loss and potential much to gain was the deal she was offering.

Osthryth sighed. She knew making it good odds would be appealing to Conatantine.

Aedre, was now off the nipple, and she sighed, nuzzling back down to sleep.

"You would give her your...old...name?"

"That will keep her," Osthryth nodded to the money again.

"This will keep her...a year," said Constantine, dismissively. But Osthryth had anticipated this.

"And information, for reclamation of lands of Northumbria." He licked his lips almost imperceptibly. But Osthryth noticed. He used to do that when he was young, when he wanted something, or had tricked someone out of something.

"So I get you again, Osthryth?" He asked, looking over her body.

"Yes."

Yet, the right course of action, Osthryth considered, would be to write to Beocca and tell her she had his daughter safe. The man would be beside himseld with grief for Thyra; their child might be a balm that would soothe some of his suffering.

Her safety would cost her, though. Osthryth closed her eyes and pictured Chester, with the bishop's wife whoring herself with anyone who would pay. Uhtred had left the gold belonging to Aethelstan and Aethelflaed to do that. There was a decent amount of gold in that bag as well as silver.

She had meant to flee then, when she had secured her brother in Bebbanburg. Uhtred of Bebbanburg. She had two brothers called Uhtred. But Uhtred Ragnarsson had not chosen to go north but to remain by Aethelflaed's side.

Oaths, she thought to herself, looking out of the window at the very beach next to the Moray that she had made hers, to Constantine when she had been thirteen and she wanted nothing more in the world than him.

"Domhnall has sworn to return me to my uncle," Osthryth reminded Constantine.

"That will not be necessary; he need not know."

"But he may?"

"He may remember; his temper is worse than you remember, Osthryth."

"But don't go to Bebbanburg; there here is nothing to gain there."

"Nothing to gain, Caraid? Why, there is everything! Why should my lands stop at the Tuide? We are natural heirs to the wall; it says so in the annals of Rome; Emperor Hadrian did build the wall: itwas you who told me that. Your uncle occupies land which is my ancestral right."

"Will you seek to do this, once you are king?" asked Osthryth. "There are families there, long-settled. I should hate to hear they have been displaced."

"No, Osthryth. I do not know if ever I will, when I become king. The Norse still plague us."

That had not changed, then. Nor had the man standing beside Constantine though, after twenty years, with the exception of streaks of grey at his temples. Ceinid twinkled at her.

But the place has changed; Dunottar had moved on, its people war-weary and afraid.

"You say a year that money will keep her?" Constantine looked at the coins, then nodded.

"In that case, I offer you, that is, I offer to Domhnall, my life given over to espionage in your service. I will spy for you, Constantine. In exchange, you will look after this child as if she is your own."

Constantine turned. Then, placing the money next to the throne.

"Your life to spy for me, Osthryth? For to bring up this anonymous child?"

"Yes," Osthryth affirmed. "Unless you will release me from my oath to you, I spy for you."

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A/N: Wco e water. Literally Uisge-Beatha is the Gaelic translation of whisky. 


	5. Domhnall

Dear Last Kingdom fans! I know these last few chapters have been focusing on Osthryth/Aedre, Uhtred's sister. There is a reason for that, and that is so that you can understand her motivation for the future. I do hope you're enjoying - please review, I'd love to hear from you

5.  
October 878

In distance, that cold foggy morning the island loomed, a darker fuzzy grey compared to the sea-sky's paler one. They had travelled for two months, Domhnall and Constantine's party, spreading the news of Ivarr the Boneless's slaughter, telling the Cymric they met how Eochaid had distinguished himself and fought bravely; when at Gaelish settlements, particularly more frequent the further west they travelled, the son of Ceinid mac Àlpin had done the bloody deed.

With both communities, the news of Ivarr's death was particularly welcome: few had not lost sons, fathers or brothers to the Norse axe; few had not had to flee while the Norse stole their land.

"A good, warm meal, men!" Domhnall declared, as the dark grey smudge came into focus. "That's what welcome awaits us at Iona!" Osthryth, who had been sleeping, curled up in sheepskins, shuddered as the boat reverberated from a change of current, the men cheering at the anticipated rest. Constantine, who was at the prow next to Domhnall noticed, her move, but did not turn round.

There had been words. They had been spoken loudly and abruptly. One night, after the party had camped on a sheltered hillside just south of Stirling, Domhnall had instructed Constantine to wash the pewter plated in the stream and then feed the feed the horses.

His cousin had sneered at the instruction and had made to wrap up in his wool blanket.

Domhnall had taken the blanket and thrown it into one of the overhanging ash trees before tipping Constantine's ale into the earth, pushing him to the ground and cursing his loiter sackness, demanding to know why he was a lubberwort, a quisby, not fit to call himself of the house Álpin.

Constantine was gathering the plates as Domhnall made to strike him again, putting his arm up as Osthryth made to pick up the task which was, ordinarily hers, telling her that she was never to do his work again. She watched as Constantine was ordered onto night guard duty, wrapping herself up near the fire as the stars decorated the sky, before getting to her feet.

"Just, go away," Constantine complained, as she made to talk to him. In the moonlight his face contorted, as if tortured by an internal fight. "Just - " Osthryth made to leave, then doubled back to around he other side of the horses.

"I think you're fit for the house Àlpin," she whispered, then pushed the pewter tankard towards him. Constantine grasped it, then looked down at her, his usual sneering before taking it firmly in his fist and draining it.

That had been nearly a month ago; Domhnall had been strict in his resove to train his cousin, giving him the worst jobs: catching and skinning the rabbits; digging out a privy; groom the horses of the mud they had encountered in on the banks of the mighty Clyde river.

"And beyond," Dohmnall pointed out, "In that green hollow, our kin, the house of Arthgal - that of our aunt - " he took Constantine and grabbed him exaltantly by the shoulders, "Is our shelter for the night."

King Eochaid was not at all surprised to find his cousins at his fortress gate that day, and gave the party on progress a hearty welcome.

"Won't they suspect something?" Osthryth asked Finnolai, as they stabled the horses.

"No more than we might suspect something," Finnolai replied. "We must behave as if nothing whatsoever concerns us with respect to any kind of uprising."

"We go to pray, at Iona," Domhnall had explained to Eochaid, at the feast laid on, clapping the backs of one another as a dusting of snow laid over the courtyard. "And they cannot lay hands on us there!"

"Yes, but the Norse can!" whipped back Feargus, the broad, red-headed warrior not much older than Constantine. Domhnall smiled.

"The monks deal with that," he replied. "Money works. And it has never been so well off compared to the devastation at Lindisfarne, with poor Saint Cuthbert taken out and on progress of its own."

Eochaid, Osthryth considered. Her family at Bebbanburg were good at two things - one was seige fortifications; the other was examining the rulers in the kingdoms north, to anticipate likey attacks. His mother was daughter of Ceinid mac Álpin - Domhnall and Constantine's fathers' sister and sister of Mael Muire.

This man had turned the tide on battle against the Norse; had Eochaid not charged, with blood-curdling cries far louder than that of the Norse and and they left, shaking hands with the king who had helped them so much on the battlefield. Was it true that there could be such a plot?

Yet, as she went to the kitchens after serving at the feast, finding a comfortable nook in which to huddle for the night, the warriors were being introduced to a Pictish warrior, who had feasted with them.

She huddled down, but her weary eyes would not lock into the blissful rest of sleep. That man...there was something about him. In the darkness, Osthryth stared at the dimming ashes of the fire. Though Eichaid was the King of the Strathclyde, it was he who seemed to be dominating the conversation: calling for more wine and discussing politics with Domnhall.

The warmth of the fire and the fibres of the wool eventually conspired to lead Osthryth to slumber, but not before the mental image of the man, skin tight over his face, eyes deep set and looking, ever watchful.

A hand covered Osthryth's face causing her to wake after several hours sleep. It was still dark, snow was still falling, and the fingers were tight about her face.

"It's Finnolai!" the young warrior hissed. "Bring your blanket, your sword; get your shoes on - we go - " Osthryth heard him turn in tbe darkness, the leather on his boots scraping on the cold stone floor. A call was indistinct, but Finnolai clearly heard it and hissed, "Here!"

A side door was unlocked, which led from the kitchen to the courtyard. A dog huffed in its sleep, twitching in the moonlight, dreaming.

"Come on!" he urged, as boot leather scraped the layer of fresh fallen snow off the courtyard stones.

Osthryth rubbed her eyes. She was half in a daze of being woken up so suddenly, even more so at being woken still further by the tiny brushes of snowflakes. Finnolai was now inside the stables, arousing the warriors. Feargus appeared, nodded in acknowlegement to Finnolai, disappearing then reappearing with a dishevelled Constantine.

"You can't go back for it!" Feargus yelled, as Constantine looked for one of his boots, which he had dropped by the stable yard. Finnolai grabbed Osthryth's shoulder in the shoulder. He was right to, as Osthryth would have got it for him, so he could slip it on and not have to walk in the courtyard with the snow with one bare foot.

Eochaid's guards had chased them to the river where, it turned out, Domhnall had pre-organised boats to collect them, that slipped away in the black of the October night, horses abandoned but necks safe as Gaelish pilots swung them into the Clyde estuary, around Arran and north, to the place Osthryth had pretended to be heading, for safety, with the pilgrims.

A day and a night on the little boat in rough seas made all who were travelling long to be by a hearth again with food in his stomach and, as a monk with a painter rope stood in the rocky jetty that served Iona, Finnolai leapt into the shallow water to slip it around the prow of the party's little boat.

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A prayer to offer peace to the travelling warriors around a welcome hot and soprific fire. Fish was served to them as it was the lead up to All Saints' Day and the abbot of the monastery heard all of Domhnall's stories, about the battle and the celebration, and that they were here for blessing from the most holy saint Columba. Or at least, that's what Domhnall was keeping to. Monks gossipped; monasteries sent missives about the comings and goings of kings at least as often as they did about the holy, Osthryth knew. That had been a shrewd move on his part.

"We go in peace to the Uí Néill," Domhnall said, as they drank the island-brewed ale.

"No peace if the Norse come here," remarked Feargus, drinking deeply. "This is a monastery; to them it's easy wealth." The abbot appeared to consider this.

"The Norse come rarely. It's true, they often raid. But more common is that they want to trade. It is my opinion," the grey-tonsured holy man offered, "that they want to settle and share in our community. Several have come for baptism."

"For how long!" scoffed Domhnall. "To them, it's a day off raiding and, exchange for wetting they get new clothes."

"True, very true," accepted the abbot, his eyes amused. Then he asked that Domhnall take a very precious set of manuscripts of the gospels for safe-keeping. "Aed Findliath, the king of the northern Uì Nèill commissioned these. They are almost finished. But, through the raids you mention, I do fear their destruction. The monks at Tara or Kells have enough of the requisite skills to complete them."

They were shown to the stables, and to an overhanging, straw-covered attic platform.

"Your warriors should be warm enough here," the abbot told them.

All climbed up, Osthryth glowing a little at being mistaken for warrior. She threw down her blanket into a corner near the slatted roof, stars beginning to twinkle.

Yet, Osthryth knew that her appearance was that of a warrior. In their steady, but watchful traverse from the east in Pictland to the west in Strathclyde, she had plaited her hair like them, Finnolai drawing her hair back in one long braid like a Gaelish warrior after a particularly stormy journey over the higher country near Scone; she had had time to try a horse, much to everyone's amusement. And she had fought them all.

For Domhnall explained, that not one if them could defend her if they were attacked, something Osthryth was pleased about, for she had grown to love fighting. Not for her the clumsy thrust of defence, but the art of it, making the most use of the least action; to conserve strength. To spend leisure time ensuring that skills were honed and tactics learned until they were part of the muscle itself.

Not everyone; not Constantine. He had not initiated a duel, once on their journey and nor had Osthryth. He wad still angered by her anA monk with a painter rope stood in the rocky jetty that served Iona: Finnolai leapt into the shallow water to slip it around the prow of the party's little boat.

Just as Osthryth was about to settle down for the night, she felt a dampness on her legs. Cursing to herself, she picked her way around the already sleeping Constantine and Feargus, climbing down the ladder and out into the monastery's courtyard. The horse's drinking trough would have clean enough, before she packed herself with the moss that she always made sure she carried.

The horses were settled for the night. Hay had made them as contented as the fish and ale had for the warriors. The stood still, their hooves unmoving on the hard earth of their stalls.

One quick, practised movement and she was clean and secure. Osthryth was just pulling up her breeches and drawing them in when she saw them. Crouching low, she watched, not daring to move, wondering whether she should see. She closed her eyes tight, and leaned back down by the legs of the horses.

After a time, the rhythmical noise slowed, and then stopped. Osthyrth opened her eyes. Two feet passed by the end of the first horse stall, mis-stepped a little, then Finnolai's boots strode past her.

Osthyrth peered further forward, around the wood between the horses. Whoever the other was needed to go too?

But the man was not in the corner, where once he had been. Instead, he was behind her. He pulled Osthryth to her feet, then hit fer in the face, making her fall to the floor. Osthryth, pain radiating from the impact, lunged low for his legs.

"Osthryth!" Domhnall exclaimed, the fight going out of him. "Osthryth!"

Osthryth stopped too, and cleared out from Domhnall's legs, getting to her feet and brushing the straw from his hair. She made to stride past him.

"You saw." Osthryth turned. A steely look on the warrior's face was held with effort.

"I saw. Or rather, I heard." Domhnall stepped towards her, yet not blocking her path. She could go.

"What were you doing here? Looking for Constantine?"

"He's in the hay loft." Osthryth nodded. "I needed to...wash."

Ordinarily, the king-in-waiting for the Pictish throne would not have troubled himself with her business; she was nothing more than a moderately good fighter who his petulant cousin had insisted travel with them. She would not have explained. And yet, she had witnessed...

"You cannot say what you saw," Domhnall pressed. "It is a grave sin for which I should burn, for which I should suffer. For which I have put to men death. Worse my reputation, and that of the house Àlpin would be destroyed."

Yes, thought Osthryth. Reputation was all. Family was all. A fleeting cloud of a memory, of her brother, of Beocca, passed over the landscape of her mind."

"I had my eyes closed," she replied, searching his face. "You...both seemed...happy...doing it...?"

"It is sinful; we are mere mortals following the word of God. Yet, did he not bring down his vengeance on Sodom and Gomorrah?"

"Yes," Osthryth agreed. Yet, she considered, the holy scriptures used had been put together by Romans, not angels. Did they not have their own interests behind which instructive books wete to be included? The Lindisfarne monks knew that; they were still Saint John Christian adherants at heart, even though Augustine christianity was the official church structure now, thanks to her ancestor Oswy, at Whitby. As were the Pictish and Gaelish churches. One God; many fragments of the whole, like a mirror shattered, with a view from each individual slightly different.

"Because, it could be viewed, should it be necessary, that Finnolai had offended you so gravely that you chose a forceful lesson to be given, in order to correct."

Domhnall looked at her for what seemed like a long time, then laughed sporadically, as he considered her words. He sank to the straw, his black hair gleaming with perspiration. Osthryth noticed for the first time that he was breathing heavily.

"Constantine is learning," Domhnall sighed, catching his breath again, looking exhausted, down at the straw. "What you and Ceinid conspired...that was shameful, and he knew it."

"Then there is no real reason for me to be here," Osthryth propmted. "I am at Iona, where I wanted to be. But without my family." And, from here, she could offer to work for the monks. She may get access to correspondence. She may discover where Beocca was; she may hear of Uhtred.

"Is that what you want?" Domhnall asked, suddenly turning his head. "To serve in a monastery."

"I want to be a warrior." Osthryth hadn't meant to say it aloud, but here, with this Gaelish prince at his most vulnerable, his most intimate, it didn't seem foolish to say it.

And, to be with Uhtred. But unless she could make some wealth, or return to Dunnottar, where her own treasure hoard was, under the rocks under the trickling stream, there was little chance even if she did know where he was.

Ultimately, Osthryth had come to realise, little by little, in her unconscious mind, that being a warrior was security, was comradeship and, on occasions, meant wealth.

"Can a woman be a warrior?"

"You are," Domhnall replied, chuckling faintly. "Women have; women do. Norse and Danish women regularly are. Many fought against us in the Great Battle." He looked up to Osthryth, and looked intently at her. "But to be a warrior and a Christian you cannot be like a Norse woman - you must be chaste. Do you...know what I mean?"

"Not to...lie with a man?" Osthryth felt the weight of conflict on her mind. She never wanted to he humped; she'd sworn she would fight any man who tried. Yet, she had not fought Constantine. She had permitted his lying with her by not resisting.

Domhnall got to his feet, and began to pace as he talked and emphasising his speech by waving his arms, in the way she would come to recognise in Constantine.

"Warriors do not carry the consequences of being...unchaste...when they lie with a woman; if you want to be a warrior, and you could: you are strong; you are swift; you behave as Gael would: you dive straight into battke without hesitation." He paused, looking at Osthryth, at her fair, warm hair, her blue eyes. She was about as far from a Gael in features as would be possible to get.

"You can anticipate and use strategy...you are cool-headed and do not flinch at combat. For this, you cannot be with child. As well as the drain on your body, no Lord would take your oath, for it would always conflict with the safety of the child and pose a weakness in his defences." He looked at her inanimate face, as she thought this over. "Do you understand?"

Osthryth nodded, the cold night air swirling at the stable entrance. That made sense. A warrior or a mother. Be humped or be chaste. It was clear to her, like the sun on a cloudless day: humping was something she could forego; the man seemed content after the act - as Domhnall had, having humped Finnolai.

What benefit was there for a woman, then, other than the risk of pregnancy and the risk of death in childbirth? Except for the need to increase a family, men lying with men was a practise that should be encouraged, for it could benefit everyone.

"Then it is chastity," Osthryth concluded, now sinking down next to Domhnall, feeling a glow of pride as she realised how this Gaelish prince of the Picts had praised her warriorness. Yet, she had never heard the word "strategy", and told him so.

"Strategy is thinking ahead," Domhnall explained. "Predicting the actions of your enemies, and not only your enemies but your friends, who may well become your enemies." Osthryth frowned.

"In what way?"

"What did you notice about Eochaid's fortress, in the green hollow by the Clyde?" Domhnall asked, patiently.

"It's October," Osthryth considered, clenching her damaged hand to relieve the cold from it. "It's the end of the fighting season. It's almost Samhain. Most of his warriors should be resting and the servants working hard." Osthryth ran through her memories of two days ago in her mind. "Yet, for there were few servants; most of the warriors were not resting. The horses were on their rich hay food, needed for long distances. These are not people lying fallow."

"Strategy." Domhnall concluded. "It suggests the rumours of a conspiracy to overthrow Aed are true."

"That man!" Osthryth said, suddenly. Those eyes, ever watchful, like a hawk, choosing its prey. Laying his eyes on Osthryth's face, as if deciding, "Shall I eat you? Or are there tastier morsels?" She looked at Domhnall and narrowed her eyes.

"Is that why we ran?" But Domhnall had got to his feet and was making for the stable door.

"Wait!" Domhnall mac Àlpin turned slowly, his body taut. But then his face softened, the scent if sweat and salt wafting from his hot body.

"You are not my warrior! You are...nothing!" He bore down on Osthryth angrily, knocking into a bay, which awoke with a shrill whinny. "Nothing but Northumbrian scum!"

Osthryth had her hand in Fadersword now. Dohmnall narrowed his eyes.

"What do you think you'll do with that?!"

"Be your ancillary!" Osthryth spat out, while it was on her tongue. "Like the Britons for the Romans! I am not Gaelish, nor Pictish. But, I can still offer...fealty! After all, you sheltered me, fed me, gave me easy work. You might have turned me away even after helping Constantine!" She pulled her sword out to the tip. "Of course I would aspire to be your warrior!"

And to their surprise, Osthryth's most of all, she sank to her knees. Domhnall mac Àlpin looked down at her. Then, he knelt too, kneeling opposite her, taking her sword wrist, and held it firmly, pushing her sword back into its scabbard.

"No," the prince said, shaking his head. "But I thank you. One day, you will be a credit to a lord. Ha!" he laughed. "You may even be a lord yourself!"

Then, drawing her back into the stall, away from the horse settling down to sleep again, he told Osthryth all he supposed.

"Giric is a member of the northern Cenél Loairn, of Moray, towards Fortiru," Domhnall explained, then dipped his head close to Osthryth's face. "He has the ear of Eochaid; he has land in the central and north of the country, which is constantly pressed by the Norse. Giric wants the Pictish throne - he wants the southern land for his own, but he knows few people will support him for he is not royal. But, by manipulating our young cousin, he can make his connivings legitimite." Domhnall sighed. "It's all becoming very clear, very clear."

"Then, we left just in time," Osthryth murmured.

"God-given," Domhnall concluded, but his voice sounded bitter, regretful. He walked towards the stables, and held open the slatted door. "Now go, Osthryth of Northumbria," the prince commanded. "Go, sleep. Take your rest, save your strength, for we must travel tomorrow, though it is Samhain. We must not offend the sibh."

As Osthryth stepped into a swirl of snow, she stopped and made to ask what he meant: what was "Savin"? Who were the "shee?" But Domhnall had sunk onto a hay bale, sword resting on his lap.

As she climbed into the hay loft, stepping across a silently huffing Feargus, and an equally still Finnolai, Osthryth was aware of a rustle of straw by the opposite wall. In the gloom she recognised Constantine's leather jerkin, turning back with its owner to the wooden sloping roof of the loft, thinking well on what his cousin had asked him to consider.

Stealthy snowflakes sneaked through careless gaps to leave lumpy deposits on his blanket.

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They had overnighted on the night known as Samhain, the day before the church day of remembrance for all of its saints. Rathlin Island had been quiet - almost too quiet, its huge cliffs rising out of the grey water as if the sea itself had solidifed into the the granite outcrops that loomed over the coracles that had transported them over the sea from Iona.

Feargus and Finnolai were subdued; their meal had been taken wuth the monks, who clearly had no truck with their will to eat supper in silence. Constantine had been put on watch of tbe boats, as Domhnall trod a lonely vigil around the cliffs, as if enduring the night's bitter cold and wind would cleanse his soul of his sin.

The next morning, as they sailed south west, following Ulster's north coastto find the channel that would lead them to the Foyle estuary, Osthryth asked the pilot of their coracle what "Savin" was.

"A night for the fairy folk - and the dead," was all he would share. So, Osthryth wrapped herself up in her blanket, staring down at the sea.

Where Northumbria faced east, with the land crowded behind the sea, here in the rich seas of Ulster the land spread out, dark green and lush, large horizons where the sea, if not always in view, suggested its presence, and could be taken in at a glance.

They were heading to the monastery at Doire ColmCille , on the west bank of the Foyle. ColmCille had lived there, before launching for Rathlin, and then to Iona, the monks at Rathlin had told them. Fog settled as they entered the Foyle estuary, making Osthryth's hair wet.

As the coracle pilots skimmed their oars up the river, Osthryth noticed people on the banks, watching them pass. They were walking towards a large wooden building which loomed around a bend. The monastery, she supposed. And, it was the Day of All Saints'. Many services would be read.

They drew close to the bank of the river, directly outside the monastery. The procession of people were indeed entering the monastery. They joined them, crowding in, their swords and bringing a chattering attention as they shouldered their way through.

The weak sun was high in the sky as they left, Feargus handing Osthryth a skin which contained a a little ale, which he hurried off her as a monk passed their row.

"Come," Domhnall said, his voice flat and serious, waving them over. On the bank where they had landed a group of men stood. Between them a woman, hair black, parted in two and plaited, one plait down each side of her head, a white cloth pinned to her head. On her left was a man. Osthryth stared, and could not take her eyes from him.

The man's shoulders began where the warriors' heads finished. His hair, red as the evening sun, flowed over his shoulders as a dark golden waterfall, a moustache on each side of his nostril of the same orange hair, drooped down to where his chin might have been if a beard did not cascade to his chest. He was twice as broad as the woman, and Aed Findliath's voice boomed around as he welcomed Domhnall and Constantine to their home.

"We have stopped Norse expansion on the coast," Aed Findliath boasted, as they feasted that night in their fortress adjacent the monastery, surrounded by oak trees on three sides. "Those we baptise, those who blend their lives with ours we pay to keep more Norse from invading. Then, they have as much of an interest in keeping more Norse from the land as we do."

Osthryth ate a piece of roasted fish in silence as she listened to the voices around her. Six months learning Gaelic at Dunnottar and the voices here were indecipherable. How was it Constantine and Domhnall could understand his kin? Was it, to them, slight changes in speech, like when the East Angles would visit, or the West Saxons or the Centish traders? Enough of a difference, but not too much?

Domhnall's troubles had, if not left him, been put aside, as he conversed easily with the men of Aed Findliath's court, accepting meat, sharing wine.

She watched as Domhnall passed over the books entrusted to him to Aed Findliath, who laughed in pleasure at the pages. The woman, who turned out to be Mael Muire, Constantine and Domhnall's aunt, murmured, pleased.

"He says that while he was the lord proclaimed as Lord of Tara at the Festival of the Uì Nèill when his father died," Feargus explained, passing Osthryth more fish, "Tara is in Flann Sinne's territory, of the southern Uì Nèill. He is the strongest of Aed's allies, yet Aed is the High King of Ireland."

Osthryth thought this over, then wrinkled her eyes as she considered it again. To think she had once thought Angle and Saxon politics was complicated, and then Welsh. Then, she had gone to Pictland and met its Gaelish king. But, Irish kingship? She may never understand it!

"And now Domhnall is telling the king about the king, the Pictish king Aed's opinion as to where the Norse go - to Dal Riada's isles or highlands; to Strathclyde's inlets; to Pictland's fertile coastlines." Osthryth looked at Feargus, frowning.

"Not the best start in diplomacy to the family who have just begun to shelter you," she mutterd, grinning. The warrior laughed.

She looked across to the table at which Constantine sat. In the candlelight, he looked older, somehow, as Aed Findliach addressed him: no trace of a scowl or sullenness, only a dignified smile and polite conversation. He did not look at her. Beside him, Osthryth noticed, a place was set and food served to an empty chair. It was how, Osthryth knew, it was meant to be.

"May you tell me of the Shee, and the festival of Savin?"

So, as Feargus unpacked the whole gamut of Gaelic superstition, of feasting, and the fire, brought in a pot to the very centre of the hall; of the foods offered to the fire fresh, harvested wheat and grain. Of the dancing which would, no doubt, begin once the food was cleared. And, no doubt, she - Osthryth - would be helping with that.

"What are you to do here, in the land of the Irish?" she asked herself.

Feargus soon finished discussing the spirits passing between world and the feast of the dead and now a seanchaías had begun a story. But Osthryth was not listening, for the answer came flying back to her: you gave your answer, Osthryth of Northumbria, to Domhnall mac Àlpin.

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31st October 899

A long time ago, Constantine's father, Aed mac Álpin, had said that it was the choices one made, personal, quiet choices that made the difference.

Uhtred called life's choices fate, or the norns, laughing as they wove destruction into men's lives.

To Osthryth, it was, and could only be God, moving in a way no man could strategise.

Aed was telling the court, in the year Osthryth had come, around a fire at the beginning of harvest, about Saint Patrick of Cumbraland, and the choice he made to leave his master to whom he had been sold as a slave. He had walked two hundred miles back to the coast, asked for passage with non-Christians. When they refused, for he had no money, he immediately prayed to God for guidance. The heathen had then turned and offered Patrick passage. The heathen expected a gesture from Patrick to mark his generosity, a heathen practise. But, Patrick said that his faith could not allow this, and he refused.

"What do you suppose the heathens did when Patrick snubbed their tradition?"

The children were eager to answer, raising hands and shouting, "Killed him!" and, "Drowned him!"

"But, of course, we know that Patrick returned to Cumbraland, to his family, and them felt God telling him to go back to Ireland, to reveal God's grace to the heathen."

They had taken him anyway, King Aed had continued, to the disappointment of some of the children, and his teaching had caused a stone to be plunged into the souls of the Irish believers and its ripples radiated out far and wide, to Iona, to Culdees, to Lindisfarne and to Durham. To Whitby and Lincoln and Lichfield. One big circle of faith from one small stone of a man.

Yes, Osthryth had thought at the time, and a few centuries later, another man had made a decision, a choice. King Oswy, her ancestor, adhered to the Irish church; his wife, a Roman church adherant. Whike Oswy celebrated Easter, and feasted and required marital relations with his wife, Eanflæd still fasted.

She remembered this story as child and had asked Father Beocca why He had not made humans less wilful, if what he wanted was for men to follow His word. Beocca had laughed, and said he had no answer to this. Maybe, the sruggle to find Him was part of faith.

Yet, the Roman church, far from melding with the heathen beliefs as the Irish had done, merely imposed rules and forbiddances. And heathen practises suvived.

On the night she had arrived back to Dunnottar, Ealasaid had shown Osthryth her room, not the little poky one shared by many servants off the kitchens, but the one near Constantine. The nurseries and royal childrens' rooms were not far, and that was where Aedre would go. But not that night, for there was no time to find a wet nurse.

So Osthryth nursed the little flame-kissed baby through the night, awoken by her littke mewlings, and screams, like cows lowing, around the courtyard. The wind, her sensible mind forced her to think as Aedre let go the remains of of the previous meal, leaving Osthryth to call for linens.

"She is beautiful," Constantine had fussed, so unlike himself, as he oversaw the baby emptied from Osthryth's arms and into the arms of the now very elderly Ealasaid. The wet nurse who tended the royal infants, MaelColm, Domhmall's son, and Indulf, Constantine's.

"Where is the king?" Osthryth asked Constantine. And she was taken, as the household began to prepare for the night's feast, with fire and food and dancing. Ceinid led her across the courtyard as the food for the feast was being arranged.

It came as a shock to Osthryth as she pushed open the oak door of the king's bedchamber, as the moanings and cries of the night before became obvious and apparent.

"He does not know who he is any longer," Ceinid murmured gently, as Osthryth looked on the face of a man she held in the very highest regard and esteem.

Old and frail, his once thick, black hair fell upon his pillow, tangled, with clumps missing, his once proud and firm face which had seen off countless of Norse and, at a turn, comforted his petulant cousin was now sunken in, a mass of lines and lumps. His eyes were closed.

Osthryth sat beside him, as softly as she could, amd he did not seem to notice, nor even when she had moved her own hand and put it across his, which were clasped together, as if in prayer. Osthryth felt her heart lurch. What had happened to this once noble and able man?

"Madness," Ceinid said, putting his hand to her shoulder. "After his son was born; after Mairi died."

Osthryth knew as much. Constantine said his cousin had gone mad and had not been able to rule for a year or more. On the night of his wife's death he had been found wandering around the castle wearing nothing before screaming into the stables. After MaelColm's birth and Mairi's death, his decline had been swift.

Domhnall had told once told her that she fought like a Gaelish warrior, no thought occurred to her ever to flee, but to run headling into a fight.

But he had been wrong. Osthryth had fled, ten years ago, refusing to trust Domhnall when asked her to, as words swirled Dunnottar of Aedre Uhtredsdottir being found.

She had fled many times in battle and, three nights before, she had fled Wessex, a motherless child in her arms. Yet, it was true she had fled here, to Dunnottar, a place she had could call her home. A place where she had become a warrior, more or less, with the consent of a king.

Osthryth had been about to get up, to leave the king when she found that he was holding her hands, one in each, his eyes open, bright and sharp.

"Osthryth," he managed, through parched lips. "Tha mi...curaidh...agam..." His words tailed off.

Osthryth felt her heart hammer in her chest. She knew what he had said, even now, even though mad. Curaidhean...that was what he called his warriors.

"Your sword," King Domhnall had demanded of her. She looked into his eyes, her heart crushed by this Gaelish warrior, who had fought beside her on the battlefield, now brought so low.

"Mi rì, chan eil mi e agam tuilleadh...I don't have it any more."

The king pulled himself, with difficulty up the bed, and leaned towards her, his eyes, full knowing of where he was, and who Osthryth was.

"Then, warrior, you must fetch it back."

Choices had brought Domhnall so low, Osthryth knew. Aed had made a choice, to take her into the royal house and life - God - had brought her to that moment.

Domhnall had made the choice to be loyal to his line of the house Àlpin, and produce heirs instead of remaining unmarried. Want of pleasing God had caused Domhnall to believe he was lacking in his faith, for humping men. Yet his choice had brought the Pictish and Gaelish crowns together. As far away as Wessex, he was named Domnhall King of Alba.

Yet, the beliefs of long ago still lingered, and that night, as Osthryth went to hold Aedre, and fuss over the girl, the castle was barred so no-one, not even a guard, not even a cat could get out. Not even a sibh could get in.

On the morning of the Day of All Saints Leodhais, one of the young household guards, had found King Domhnall, naked, sword in hand, face down in the courtyard. Osthryth had seen him rush over as she had got up early to wash and she, too, had knelt beside her lord.

He had been locked in, Osthruth knew. The maids and the butler had been fiercely interrogated. Yet, from a locked room and a barred castle the King of the Picts and the Gaels had stumbled down the stairs, waved his sword and fell down, a blow to his temple from the stones in the courtyard ending his life. Now, the world seemed like a much darker place.

"Mo thighearna rì," she had whispered, as another guard, Conagh, had come to help. But he ears would never convey her filial love for him to his brain. So she prayed to God, silently, as Ceinid led her away, and in the still of the morning, when all the sibh had gone, Osthryth did the most un-Osthryth-like thing, something she had only ever done once before: she cried.  



	6. Ui Neill

Great news! Season 5 of TLK has been commissioned!

Thank you for the reviews so far - please continue to tell me what you think: like it? Don't? Which character do you want go see more of? Which do you like the best?

Who would you lile Osthryth to meet? (No promises)

Sorry she's not met Uhtred yet, but she will - give Osthryth time to get from Ireland down to Wessex - it's very far in using 9th century transportation.

Plus, the Battle of Brunanburh contains all these characters, their motivations, especially Constantine - he really was the Scottish version of Alfred - but then, it seems at the time coagulation of kingdoms was the thing: Hywel Dda, in Wales, who we see in Series 4 on TV; and also Flann Sinna in Ireland, and on the continent earlier with Charlemagne.

6\. Winter 878

It had been a swift, footed, lively housekeeper, black hair parted under a mob cap, chatting nineteen-to-the-dozen who had, the second night in Doire, taken her to a blanket and straw bed at the back of the kitchen with the other servants.

The woman might have taken her the first night, except the drinking had gone on so long into the early hours of 1st November that Osthryth bowled along with Domhnall's other warriors to the stables, where she had been awoken, lying between Finnolai and Feargus, by an irate stable master. Osthryth had been first to awake, and had been spoken to at length by the man, catching only about one word in seven and unserstanding even less.

She did understand a pail of icy water over her for her insolence and being knocked to the ground before the third of Domhnall's warriors, Tadhg, a blonde-haired, wiry boy of about nineteen, sprang at him, screaming a stream if equally unintelligible words back. Finnolai had pulled him off, and the commotion had brought a worse-for-wear Domhnall into the stable, barking orders at each of them, before hauling Osthryth off to the fortress.

"Aunt Muire will not permit you to reside with the men," Domhnall explained. "I know you desire to be a warrior, Osthryth, however, while we live here, I have another role for you."

Osthryth had then been sent off to the kitchens, to help the elderly cook prepare the All Saints' feast, a slight man who turned out to be deaf, and whose words made a little more sense. She supposed that there weren't that many ways to say "meat" and "vegetables" in Gaelic, no matter the dialect, and she soon fell into the routine, so similar it had been to Dunnottar Castle.

But to took until the morning after that, having been woken early in the servants' sleeping quarter at the back of the kitchen to be told what she must do.

"The children need to be taught," Domhnall explained, as he took Osthryth to see his aunt. "And they need to practise their learning."

Osthryth protested that while she could read and write, she was not a scholar, nor did she know enough Gaelic even to write it.

"Your role will be to see the children complete what the monks tell them they must do; since I brought the Iona manuscript, they have been busy completing it and binding it. They do not have time to wait for the children to complete it, ah," he said, opening the door to the royal rooms.

"This is my aunt," Domhnall explained, as the woman, who had been by the king's side nodded. She was beautiful. Long, black hair framed skin that was milk white. She wore a linen dress dyed dark yellow with lichen andvaround her waist a circlet of beaded chain on which hung a key.

Domhnall waited beside Osthryth, but his aunt said, "I would speak with this girl alone," narrowing her eyes at Osthryth as the door clicked behind her nephew.

"You are a servant of Domhnall, and a companion of Constantine," Muire said, looking at Osthryth with curiosity. "And your family were murdered as you travelled to Iona?"

"Yes, Lady," nodded Osthryth. "And, you have a sword."

"My father's - "

"Your father's sword." Muire looked at her again. "And you are fifteen?"

"Thirteen, Lady."

"And you were educated...?

"At home. By my father." Osthryth's responses had been direct and prompt. Yet, this woman, the daugher of Ceinid mac Àlpin, was intelligent and shrewd. She watched as Mael Muire narrowed her eyes. Osthryth shuddered as she considered her limited options, for, if she did indeed believe her to be Aelfric's niece, Osthryth had walked freely into a trap of her own making.

She felt her sword hand lower. It would be her only chance. But instead, Muire smiled warmly, then took Osthryth's hands in her own, looking at the damaged one, with the square arrow bolt scar.

"My brother chose to be kind to you," she nodded. "For you saved Constantine's life. And you have inspired Domhnall's respect, a very difficult thing to do: my nephew does not impress easily. You fought in battle...all that is incredible for a girl of your age."

Incredible, thought Osthryth, grimly. It was that, or become a peace cow. Poor Aedre, as she had once been, would be violated night after night, and probably murdered, for the Danes perhaps to send muscle to Aelfric, if he was lucky.

"It is also not an acceptable role for you," the Uì Nèill queen continued. "While you stay with us, you will not fight; our warriors in Ireland will not tolerate women fighting - that is men's business, no matter what the degenerate Picts do."

"No, Lady." Muire held out her hand to Osthryth, who stepped forward as the queen took her shoulders.

"Your father taught you to fight?" Osthryth nodded. "We lived at Seahuises; we were often raided by Norse and Danes. I have killed many."

"But you will fight none here; my husband has his own way of dealing with the Norse, and it proves effective." Osthryth felt her hand moving to the hilt of her sword again. Muire laughed.

"As it is so precious to you, I will not take it from you. But you must not carry it." She stepped back from Osthryth. "It will be in my care, as the royal children are in yours.

"Mairi, Eira and Gormlaith, my own son, Niall and my other nephews, Mael Dubh and Mael Duin they will be your charges. Come."

Queen Mael Muire walked towards an oak door opposite the one through which she and Domhnall had come. Beyond, in various pursuits of sewing, sword play and a game of stones the children were busy, under the watchful eye of one of the older servants Osthryth recalled seeing in the kitchen. Muire called the children to her as Osthryth looked at their faces.

The girls were older than the boys, a little younger than her. Muire explained she had an older son, Domnall, named after Domhnall, who was old enough to study with the priests alongside his sword work.

"He and Contantine are well matched," Muire added. "They are both keeping my husband busy in teaching them."

The last child, a boy of about six, was brought in from the woods when his mother noticed he was missing. On this cold November morning he was without his trousers and it looked as if he had been walking around in tbe mud on his knees.

"I found worms," Niall said, holding up a handful as his mother expressed horror at his appearance. Osthryth found herself suppressing a giggle. Muire then instructed Marsaili to clean him and dress him again.

"Without the worms," she added, then led Osthryth back to her own room.  
"You will continue in the kitchens today and will take the children over to the monastery after breakfast tomorrow," Muire insuructed. "When they are in your charge, you must ensure their work is done, and return them in the evening to the nursery. You should have free time to wash before dinner."

"May I leave the fortress?" Osthryth asked. "When the children are not required to work?"

"If you do not want to live," Muire replied.

"I can fight," Osthryth pressed. Muire smiled.

"You have never seen an Irish Gael fight. And there are Norse." She put a hand on Osthryth's shoulder. "While I do not kerp you here as a prisoner, will you respect what is asked of you?"

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Osthryth, to her surprise, found that she liked the children and looked forward to their daily progress over to the monastery. Midwinter turned to spring, birds chirrupped and built nests and her little party of six children would walk in line over to the great archway of the monastery.

The girls were very proper, though would answer her back in Gaelic when she gave instructions and Osthryth was not altogether certain that Mairi was being polite, for she would often watch the very end of what might have been a smirk as the girl looked round to Eira and Gormlaith.

The boys, when she had finally got them used to sitting at a table and copying from a large ledger of bound manuscripts - some in Gaelic; some in an alphabet Osthryth had never seen before, made of lines at different angles - were compliant.

At the end, as they walked back to the castle, would all beg Osthryth for a story, and they in turn would tell her one they knew.

Whatever happened, though, Niall always seemed to be in a filthy state, either before Osthryth took her or on their way back that his mother began to call him "grubby knees", though he could be bribed into keeping clean with a spoonful of honey via the kitchens.

One morning, as the night frost had still not begun to melt and a brisk breeze blew in from the northern sea, Osthryth's attention was caught as something flew through the air and caught her above the temple. She turned to find another whistling through the crisp air, this time, landing just beyond Gormlaith's feet. The girl jumped, gasping at the near miss.

From the far corner of the courtyard, two warriors, who had been engaging in morning sword training were staring at Osthryth's little group. Another stone came, and Niall howled, clinging to Osthryth's legs.

"Chan eil tilg clachan!" Osthryth shouted, as she bent to comfort little Grubbyknees. The stone had skimmed the top of his head and had begun to bleed. She kissed it, pulling him close as another stone flew by.

"Chan eil tilg clachan!" Prince Domnall, Aed Findlaith's eldest son imitated her imperfect Irish. "Na tilg, salachar de Pictan!" He threw another stone and laughed when it hit his brother again.

"Tell him to stop!" Osthryth shouted to his opponent, as she hurried the children towards the monastery. Constantine, the opponent, turned to Domnall, muttering something. Domnall laughed, and looked at Osthryth.

"A bheil tha buchaille i? Is she a boy?"

"Tha mì buchaille agam," shouted back Osthryth, awkwardly. "I am a boy. Na cailiean. Not a girl."

"Is this right?" laughed Domnall, mockingly, to his cousin. "She is a boy?"

"She does do as a boy does," Constantine confirmed. "She can fight." Domnall looked back at Osthryth.

"Can she hump serving wenches?" Domnall called out her. But Osthryth had turned her head and continued to walk towards the monastery.

"You, girl!" Domnall shouted. "I'm talking to you!" But Osthryth would not look at him.

"And she is a servant?" bawled Domnall to Constantine, outraged that a servant had ignored him. He bent to take up a stone, much larger than the pebbles he had thrown before. Osthryth stepped in front of little Mael Duin, who it would have certainly hit if she hadn't. Instead, it bounced off her thigh, painfully and deflected down into the mud.

"You know she can kill you? Constantine said to his with interest. "She fought beside Domhnall, defended him as he killled Ivarr the Boneless. I saw her," he added, as Domnall looked at Constantine with incredulity. "I have seen her kill a dozen Norse" he added, grumpily.

"Then, let's just very well see!" Without any time for Constantine to stop him, Domnall had wrenched his cousin's sword from him, stalking over to Osthryth. He thrust it onto the floor in front of her.

Osthryth said nothing, looking from the sword to the boy not much older than she was, leaving the blade where it was. She made to continue to the monastery, nodding at the two girls to go on and scooping up Niall and giving him to Mairi, then taking Mael Dubh and Mael Duin, one arm round each.

"Lies!" screamed Domnall, charging at her. Gormlaith screamed, and the boys ran towards their sister as Domnall ran towards Osthryth. He would have skewered her shoulder had she not sprang out of the way. The boy turned and, and ran at her again. Osthryth ducked, this time, seizing up the sword from the mud, ducking again as a slicing blow came her way.

She swung upwards with Constantine's sword, blocking another, knowing she must not be on the offensive. But this boy had to stop, or he would kill her.

A shout from the monastery brought monks to the door, one ushering in the children. More people gathered to watch.

"You cannot throw stones at the chidren!" Osthryth shouted to him. Domnall pushed again, and Osthryth slipped a little in the mud. "I will not fight you!"

"Then, I will kill you, Pictish scum!" Domnall screamed back, in triumph. And he drove his sword down, and down.

Osthryth fought. Down near his legs she saw her chance and, using Constantine's sword for balance, got low to her feet and drove against the soft ground. She slipped, but it was enough as she wrapped her arms around both legs, her cheek by his thigh. Domnall didn't fall, but it was enough to stop a third assault and he staggered back as Osthryth raised Constantine's sword again, parrying his blow, driving him back again.

She was aware of eyes on her, but as a periphery, background, as she continued to press her advantage. She could kill him now, Osthryth knew. Two steps, two more blows, and he could he gone.

Then she stopped. For behind her arms held hers. Osthryth staggered back, as Domnall got to his feet. A smirk played at the corner of his lips as she backed into he who had restrained her.

Osthryth struggled, trying to worm away, but and arm wound round her neck. Domnall strode over to her leeringly, but Aed Findlaith, the king, pushed his son away.

"You fought well, for a Pictish boy," he growled, close to her head. Domnall stared at his father, sullenly. Osthryth tried to move again, but the king held her fast, leaning over by her head, his orange- red beard flowing into her eye line.

"Do you know what we do with boys from Alba?" he asked ferociously, close to her ear. "We take them by the ankles and swing them over our heads to they fly back over the Irish Sea and land with their arses in the water!" Osthryth found she was trembling as the Aed broke into a rumbling guffaw. Domnall stalked, scowling towards them, sword raised in Osthryth.

"You leave this boy to his work," the king shouted at his son, tremulously, "He could show you some things!"

"She is a girl, athair," shot back Domnall.

Osthryth shuddered as the king reached down her chest, hand flat, then squeezed at her, closing her eyes as he pressed her back against his towering body. A lump pressed into her back. Then the king laughed, heartlily.

"Go, girl, to your job, then that may still yet keep my elder son alive!" Osthryth staggered a little in the mud, not daring to turn round to look at the king, and stalked through the damp mud. The children were waiting for her, eyes wide.

"I wonder who will hump her first, I or my father," Domnall shouted, smirking at Constantine. He picked up Constantine's sword and threw it low in his direction.

"She has chosen chastity," Osthryth heard Constantine shout back. "She will fight anyone who tries."

"Not if the guards hold her down, she won't."

From the doors of the monanstery, Osthryth turned as a huge clatter of metal reverberated from the ground. Constantine had charged at his cousin, feet kicking, fists striking, spilling blood until Finnolai and Feargus, ten minutes later, pulled him off.

Later that night, when she had served on dinner duty for the royal family, Domnall's eyes on her all the time and the king laughing heartily when she was close, Osthryth made her way wearily back to the kitchens.

The cook had made a vegetable stew again that night - water, seaweed and tubers into which he dropped a scalding hot stone from the fire. When Osthryth approached with a bowl, the cook shot out a hand and pushed her away; when she tried again, the cook took a wooden spoon and beat her over the arms and face until she retreated back to her bed.

It was Finnolai who crept into the kitchen later on that night, with ale and bread. He seemed somehow elated: his face beamed, his skin seemed somehow to glow, yet a part of him seemed harrassed, as if he'd fought a thousand battles.

"Because you fought with Domnall," he explained, tearing some bread up, kindly, then pushing the ale jar into her other hand. Osthryth supped deeply from the jar, and bit at the bread, hungrily before thanking him profusely.

"Not me," Finnolai replied, sinking back against the wall, "From Domhnall."

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"I do not care what provoked it." Osthryth was standing in Queen Muire's chambers again, where she had been when the queen told her she was to care for the royal children. "You should be flogged by my son. However - "

The queen broke off as Osthryth looked back at her, impassively. Flogging a servant for defiance was typical.

"However - come, sit child." She gestured towards a window seat, and sat herself.

"What of your life, girl? For you do not come from a noble family."

"My family were not badly off," Osthryth recited the padded story. "My father owned a fishing fleet. He taught me and my elder brother to fight, to defend ourselves from Danes." She sighed, remembering the prone body of the father of the family, remembering them all, even the small children, hacked to death by the Norse invaders. And for what?

"We were on our way to give thanks at that most holiest of places when we were attacked." Osthryth looked down, at her hands, looking at the one bearing the square scar of the arrow, already is year old.

That morning, as if his assault on her had never been, the cook had woken her early and fed the servants what they called "congaigh", a thin, milk-water food mixed with oats. Osthryth had not bern denied any, though had then dropped a bowl of by trying to grasp it with her damaged left hand.

He had beaten her about the head a few times, before grumbling off by himself. She had heard the serving girls laughing, running off when they knew Osthryth had heard them, muttering fast in Irish, knowing she understood little. Osthryth had caught words she did know: "curaidh", "blàr" and also, "Constantine", and she also thought she heard, "Salachan de Pictan." How many people had watched her fight the prince? The servants, clearly.

"You know that my nephew Domhnall was entrusted to bring manuscripts from Iona and Culdees to us, for safekeeping." Muire's face was one of tranquility and Osthryth realised that the Uì Nèill queen had them, simply and plainly in her lap. Osthryth looked down.

If the monks had meant for these sheets of calfskin, scraped and dried, stretched and wetted, to illustrate the glory and might of God's heaven in red lead and ochre, of indigo, lichen-purple edged in soot black, gold of orpiment, then they had certainly managed it. With the morning sunlight, the colours looked as if they filled the room with their magnificence.

Often, she had seen the monks in ColmCille monastery working over pages such as these, individual pots of pigments before them, the left wing of a goose to sit well in their right hand, which the scribes would sharpen periodically with a small blade.

"It is glorious to behold, is it not?" Queen Muire said softly. Osthryth felt herself nodding in agreement.

"They are the gospels, begun at Durham; sent for safety to Lindisfarne and brought, with the pilgrimage that you were on, says Domhnall, to Culdees. It was taken on to Iona, but still they have not been safe from raids, and therefore, unfinished." Muire placed the gospel pages carefully on a polished, oak table beside her, drawing an assortment of scrolls and parchments into her lap.

"My nephew also brought these; letters and testaments, land deeds and histories: all manner of correspondence, religious and secular, some for us here at the ColmCille monastery, some for monks at Kells. For example," Muire laid the missives in her lap, "Norse raid our Western Isles, take sheep and land; Danes raid south of the Great Wall, taking land and slaughtering thousands. They have names, these Danes: Eirik, Siegfried..." she peered closely, "Sven, Kjartan...Ragnar..." Muire laid it aside, then asked, "Osthryth?

Osthryth opened her eyes. She had screwed them up as the queen recited the names, for she was certain she was going to hear one more: Aedre.

"We are all kin of Cenél nÉogain," went on Muire, putting down the papers, "including Domhnall and Constantine. Yet, they are also kin to the Strathclyde Cymric, tracing their way back to ancient times. Eochaid is challenging my brother on that point for control of the Pictish throne." Osthryth nodded. Her aunt Gytha, that is to say, her own mother who had been forced to marry her uncle Aelfric - who had made Beocca baptise Uhtred when theur father had changed it from Osbert - had been of Rheged. She was Christian, but had some strange ideas; heathen ideas. Osthryth was half Briton as well as Saxon.

"Kingdoms are easier on the same land, especially if the invaders come, as the Norse have come. My brother Aed freed the world when Domhnall slayed Ivar the Boneless. Yet Ivar Ivarsson is still the scourge of the sea coasts. It does my heart no good to see the Ulaid harrassed, yet they are our ancient enemy. But for the expulson of the north I would see an Ireland under one king." She sighed and looked at Osthryth.

"Even we, the north and south Uï Nèill are watchful and guarded of one another rather than friendly. For there are many contenders to be high king to take our lands outside the Norse. But, come," the queen finished. She took with her the letters and manuscripts and they made their way across to the monastery.

"You can read?" Muire asked Osthryth, as she gave the richly illuminated manuscript book to the abbot.

"Father believed I should," Osthryth nodded, as a less senior monk, young and fresh-faced relieved the queen of the parchments, papers and scrolls. Father Beocca that was, Osthryth added.

"I believe you have been at Lindisfarne?" Osthryth nodded. One night technically counted.

"Then you would have seen the monks at work, in the words of our Lord?" Osthryth nodded again.

"These gospels are unfinished," Muire explained. "The Lindisfarne monk, Brother Conn, who worked on these was a master. No other gospels like these have ever been produced. Yet, Conn was murdered on a raid by Danes. They were sent to Culdees by arrangement of my brother Aed, but when no-one skilful enough could be found, he tried again at Iona and then at Rathlin. So, Dohmnall saw fit to bring them to me. And yet still, I fear, that we may not finish them."

Muire led Osthryth back to the castle and to her own chambers. She then held sonethinfmg out to her. Osthryth stared into the queen's milk-white hand, at what looked like a large globule of snot.

"It is a squid, from Lough Foyle." She held the dead sea creature flat on her palm. Osthryth could see the tiny lines and dark sections within the small animal.

"It is only in these months, until the harvest, that these will be available on the coast. Our monks desperately need them for the dark blue pigment they give." The queen pointed to a section at the back of the squid, where a dark spot, darker than the rest, sat heavy.

"If the gospels are to be finished, and the word of the Lord be heard, you must find as many of these as you can when next you stride the northern shore for seaweed. Bring them to me."

"But, my Lady, how will I know where to look?"

"I am given to understand they bask in the shallows," the queen smiled. "Go as far as you wish, but remember, you are close to Ulaid territory. And, too, heathen folk comb the shores for substances for their unholy rites." And then, before Osthryth had time to reply, Muire put down the sea creature and walked over to a door, through which she walked, coming back with something far more precious in her hands.

"Faedersword!"

The word escaped Osthryth's mouth before she could stop it, the sheen of the scabbard flashing almost as brightly as the illuminations of the gospel pages.

"You will need protection, although, I saw how you fought my son," the queen said, handing it to Osthryth. "No Ulaid warrior will live if they attack you, my dear. I can spare no guards to search the beach; neither can other servants go, unprotected."

Deep into that night, as the moon rose and owls twit-twoo'd to one another, Osthryth crept over to the monastery. It was true what she told Mael Muire about being able to read. She had also seen where the queen had placed the manuscripts.

Lighting a candle at one corner of the scriptorium, Osthryth took them up, Faedersword by her side. And read, and read and read.

She read how her brother had been taken prisoner, then adopred by Danes, how he had burned down his adopted father's settlement. Osthryth looked at the words telling her how he had become a warrior in a far off kingdom called Wessex, and another that had condemned him for slaughtering innocent Britons in Cornwalum, married, then abandoned, a wife called Mildrith. Become a father amd suffered under a cumulative tax, which he could not pay.

And how, too, he had stood side-by-side next to Alfred of Wessex, as the king had sent for aid across his kingdom for the Saxons' last stand against the Danes. And they had come, and Alfred had led them to victory at a place called Ethandun. Yet, Osthryth wondered, why was it they called Uhtred an "Ungodly Dane"?

As the sun sent out its early warning colours of pale gold and blue underlining the last of the night's darkness, Osthryth's heart sang as she read letter after letter, replacing them carefully in turn, read just one last thing: with her brother in Wessex was Father Beocca.

She could not help it. As she crept from the monastery, knowing that it would only be a few hours before she would arrive with the royal children, Osthryth realised how important to her this information was and her heart glowed with happiness: she had gone to search for any reference to herself, missing from Bebbanburg, and instead, she now knew exactly where her brother was.

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It was that evening that the chef gave her the basket she used for seaweed so the very next dawn Osthryth made her way the several miles up river to where it opened into an estuary, and then a lough. The sun wasn't up yet, and it was very cold, yet there was a lightness in her step as she nursed the secret of her brother in her chest.

The coast was as Muire had explained: now, as summer was beginning, the squid would populate the shallows and it would be easy, after harvesting the seaweed, to bring back the squid as the tide receded, for they were washed up on the sand and could be picked up.

Getting to higher ground, Osthryth surveyed the land below, the sun's warmth on her face, remembering her first - and only - time of seeing him, riding as he had been, to Bebbanburg to threaten Aelfric.

Uhtred! In Wessex. But how was she to find him? At the palace, clearly. But, how ro get there? She had a few silver coins from the treasure bag, last buried under Dunnottar's spring. A handful of silver coins would not get her across the Irish sea. How she longed to see him once again.

In no time, as the sun rose, its rays strengthening, as it picking out clumps of seaweed deposited over the smooth, new sandy surface. They would eat well over the next few days, for the seaweed would be boiled and turned into a concentrated mush which the chef would fry, or mixed with tubers.

It didn't take long for Osthryth to find the squid. Tiny jelly balls dotted the coast, come to enjoy the warm midsummer waters, she assumed. She had the one the queen had given her and so far, as the breeze buffetted her plait, had found seven of them. Maybe if she walked a little further east, she would find more: Muire wanted not just a hahdful, but at least a thousand.

The water felt warm as Osthryth dipped her hand into the water. She cast around for the small masses of jelly and her hand caught another, and she pulled it out, resting it on the seaweed in the basket.

Resting her basket on the sand, Osthryth decided to make the most of the warm water. She stripped off to her woollen undergarments, wading out until she was chest height in the hardy waves.

Unplaiting her hair, Osthryth rubbed a little bracken she had found on the higher ground through her hair and, reaching underneath her woollen clothing, rubbed over her body. Hair trailing, Osthryth dived through the waves until she reached the shore, combing through her hair with a broken piece of razor shell until the pale, golden strands flowed to her waist.

Osthryth pulled on her clothes - they would dry in the sun - and snoothed down her hair again. She couldn't plait it herself though; instead she bound it loosely with the leather cord that Finnolai had used - perhaps he could do it again for her.

She sat on the sand as gulls screamed overhead, flying vertically, bombing the sea for fish as rays of golden sunlight warming her face. Osthryth felt happy for the first time thshe could remember: Uhtred was alive! And, not only alive, but doing well, having been enslaved, and escaped, as a warrior in a far-off southern kingdom.

She had a little silver. It was tightly bound in the lining of her undergarments - not much, but a few coins, taken from the bag hidden under the rock in the springwater, gone now, no doubt. It could buy passage - but where from? And where to?

Even if she could prove herself as a warrior, could be paid, or travel, then she would. But, Osthryth knew, she must get across the sea, and that would require a boat, and a trustworthy boatman.

Even after a that, the Irish tongue, despite its similarity to Gaelish, was proving a barrier. And there was a good chance she could be picked up by slavers.

Her eye wandered on the beach, looking at the smooth sand. Her prints tailed off between the two large cliffs through which she had walked. Now she looked, more prints trailed across the samd, coming from the east.

A panic overcame Osthryth as she looked round for her basket. A that morning's work! She got to her feet, looking round. Yet her sword was still there: whoever had taken it felt the seaweed and squid were more valuable

Just in the distance, Osthryth could make out two figures, one smaller than the other, but they were not walking together: indeed, the larger figure was stooping to look in rock pools.

She began to run, her feet slipping easily over the firm, damp sand. In the hand of the smaller figure - a child - was the basket. Osthryth picked up the oace, rounding on the child and plucking it out of his hands.

A wail of protest brought the larger figure, presumably the boy's mother running over to them. The woman had long black haur, some flecked with a little grey and woven braids through her hair. The child had hair of the same colour which hung around his face in soft waves.

"Máthair! Máthair!" the boy shouted. A rapid, indecipherable conversation between them ensued, finishing as the woman struck him by the ear. She took the basket from him and held it out to Osthryth. Nothing was missing out of it. From his hand the boy offered the woman something which looked like squid. The woman bent to the boy's hand and sniffed.

It was clear to Osthryth that they were heathens. Like the heathens at the village near Dunnottar, where the woman had sold Osthryth moss for her monthly bleeds, they lived by ancient knowledge of the natural world. What was different was that they were doing so out in the open, where anyone could see them. Anyone did. The woman was pushing the boy towards Osthryth.

"I am sorry," the boy said. "I thought the basket was abandoned."

"You did not see me in the water?" Osthryth asked. The boy narrowed his eyes, and looked at his mother, who glared at Osthryth. At least, Osthryth assumed they were mother and son: both had dark hair but pale blue eyes, with a similar look to Constantine and his father, Aed mac Àlpin.

"We do not steal. It would upset the balance of things." She narrowed her eyes. "We also do not owe. My son will replace the squid he dropped." She looked past Osthryth at the squid trail on the beach. At once, the boy raced to the waterline and began to rove in the green surf.

"You do not hide your faith?" Osthryth asked.

"We are not persecuted for it as some are; the Uì Nèill are tolerant, though they send their holy men to tempt us to the Christian faith, and condemn us for sacrificing children." The woman watched as her son slipped a handful of squid into Osthryth's basket. He stood by his mother, who gripped the child around the neck.

"We do those when they've been naughty!" Osthryth started as both woman and child laughed. She laughed, too.

"I am Osthryth." Osthryth nodded.

"I am Bheatha; this is Finn." Bheatha nodded, then added, a curious mix of intrigue and curiosity in her pale eyes. "By all the sibh, you call yourself Osthryth."

"The sibh? The shee? That's who you believe in?"

"The gods," nodded the woman. "Ceridwen, Lugh, Naet, Cu Chulainn...Bridgit...Morrigan..." Osthryth nodded.

"The Uì Nèill too." The woman looked at Osthryth, and laughed.

"But of course!" Bheatha laughed. "For they dare not! They are merely us seduced by the benefits of Christianity - trade opportunitues, defence. And the Norse do not peess on us here as they do in Alba."

"You know Alba?" Bheatha nodded. "We travel around these isles, know so much, hear so much. It is not to do with us - it is for Christian kings to concern themselves with. We are the land, and the sky and the water. We take only what we need to survive, and thank the gods for their generosity."

Osthryth found herself nodding, for she had heard that before: the woman who sold her moss for her bleeding said as much. Heathen rarely stayed in the same place for any great length of time. Instead, they travelled, looking for the most bountiful of resources that nature could provide. And this northern beach, for this time of year provided squid.

"What do you need the squid for?" Osthryth crouched to Finn's height. "And the sea weed?" She held out some seaweed, but the boy shook his head and folded his arms.

"Medicine," amswered Bheatha. "My father passed his healing knowledge to me, and now I teach my son." Bheatha smiled, holding up a handful of flowers, jagged points with black centres.

"Henbane", said the boy. "To help with the breathing, andvwith the joints." His mother nodded.

"This?" She held up a small, thin branch.

"Pain relief; headaches. It's willow," he added. "Do you wish to buy?" Osthryth smiled.

"An excellent merchant," Osthryth praised him.

"Ah, but this woman-warrior needs sonething more." The woman looked at her again, curiosity and interest. "Moss? Or, a draught to quell the blood? This will quell a child." This time, it was Osthryth's turn to be interested.

"Or perhaps...to end the life of a child you bear?" She stepped towards Osthryth and put a hand over her stomach.

"Is thay what they mean?" asked Osthryth. "The queen...the monks...are these the children you sacrifice?" The woman laughed, heartily.

"The gods - our gods - do not like to be cheated of life; should you choose this path, others will be closed to you, at best; at worst, they will exact a cost, no matter how terrible. And," she leaned closer. Many of these are poisons. Yet, used wisely, they can calm and settle.

"Tha an t-acras orm - I am hungry!" Finn said, suddenly, looking at his mother, who took a tie of material from her shoulder, looking into it, resignation on her face.

"When we get home, beautiful," she replied, sorrowfully. Osthryth inhaled. From her pocket she prduced a hunk of bread, which the boy immediately took up. Bheatha frowned and stepped close to Osthryth, thrusting something out of the tie of material - dried moss. Osthryth stared at her.

"We must not be in your debt nor you ours. It would not be right."

"Right for your gods?" asked Osthryth, who was not hungry and reasoned the foid would only go to waste.

"Right for everyone," said the black-haired woman, gravely, "For the gods are everything, the land, the sea the wind, the plants, the seasons and the turning of the years. That wheat was taken from the land, the water with which to cook it the springs; the wood with which to bake it the trees." Osthryth nodded, politely, yet the look on Finn's face, of gastronomic delight, made her smile.

"To whom do you sell your medicine?" Osthryth asked.

"Ourselves, and we do not sell to other believers, but trade. The palace buys a good deal from us in silver, yet at the same time, their christianity compels them to insist on us becoming Christian." She turned her head to the sea, the wind whipping strands of hair across her face.

"Yet over in your land, Aed mac Àlpin might have don better by not persecuting us." She looked back at Osthryth. Not that he is harsh as he once was. His time will soon be past, I fear."

"They still believe in the sibh, for their Christianity," said Osthryth, nodding in the direction of Doire. And, maybe even she did, Osthryth thought to herself. Windy nights, creakings and howlings. The sibh were truly alive in this land letting their displeasure be known.

"That is because it is their history too, and they know it," Bheatha continued. "While Christians were led in this land, at the time of our ancestor Calgach, they took the faith. They were selfish, wanting an everlasting life beyond this. You can only balance what you have." She passed the bag of loosely-tied herbs and plants to Finn, who sat on the sand, organising them.

"They know it, because we are one people - those of us who, those centuries before, resisted. The Uì Nèills did not resist and reap the rewards of trying to forget about the gods by aligning themselves with the church. Money, power, land: they suffer for it, and know it, too. Do prayers heal wounds? Do stories of righteousness send the dead across peacefully?" Bheatha put her arm round Finn, and the boy placed every wood, leaf, flower and root back into the crudely-fashioned bag. They turned to go.

"Wait!" shouted Osthryth. The woman turned. "Do you have a medicine that will resist a child?" she, asked hurriedly, her voice dropping low. "A medicine to be taken to prevent children after lying with a man?" She saw Bheatha's brow wrinkle. "That can be done?" Osthryth pressed.

"That can be done," Bheatha confirmed. "Yet. You should know should never be undertaken with frivolity or carelessness: the bond between a mother and child should not be severed without good cause. It is costly, though I do not mean just silver." She flashed a smile to Osthryth.

"Permit us some of that weed and it is yours." Osthryth reached into the basket andvheld out a generous handful. She had silver, but did not want to offend the heathen woman. Returning with so little would probably get her a beating but the old cook's arms mostly missed anyway.

"Wait until your next blood, then, dissolve of this lily root a small portion - " Bheatha indicated with her grubby thumbnail a portion no thicker than a grain of wheat, "With honey. Drink just a little each day. You nay also find you the pain that troubles you is much reduced." Osthryth pushed the root into her clothing.

"You are very tolerant, for a Chriatian," Bheatha smiled. "You have not once asked me to mend my ways or step into the light."

"I am warrior; my mother was of Cumbraland, a Christian." Osthryth went to the memory of her aunt, once her mother. Never offend a heathen, respect their ways. And those in far off Eiriann and the far north in Alba were never subjugated by the Latins. They hold the truth.

But her mother had only ever whispered this to her, and very rarely, at bedtimes, when she was small, before her she was remarried to Aelfric. Even then, Osthryth had wondered whether they were really her mother's words, or part of her own dreams.

"When we travel, we have been to Cumbraland," Bheatha smiked. north to the Strathclyde Cymric; south, to the West Cymric. Though that land is harsh; the Chrisians there are very pious."

"And what will you do with my seaweed and your squid?" Osthryth asked crouching to Finn's level. The boy beamed widely, twinning his mother.

"The seaweed brings brightness," the boy recited, "Gives health; restores the strength of a warrior. If your heart is troubled," he placed his hand over Osthryth's chest, looking serious, "Or your blood is maligned, the squid will put this to rights."

"Very good, balach," his mother nodded, putting her arm out to Finn and drawing him to her as he stood. "We must away." And, to Osthryth added, "I feel this will not be our last meeting, Osthryth."

Osthryth turned, looking up at the high cliffs she must climb to get to the upper pathway and get back to Doire, thinking about what Bheatha said. To meet them again now that would be something. Would they be moving? Would they cross to Alba or Cumbraland or Crymru? If she was with them, then maybe, just maybe...

Two figures watched Osthryth turn, with her somewhat lighter basket, and walk in the opposite direction to Bheatha and Finn across the sand. They shouted across to her as she got almost to the top of the rocks that took her to high ground, bringing Osthryth's mind back to the present.

She turned, to see two warriors. They were young men, yet not as old as Domhnall. They strode in front of her, blocking her path, keeping their pale blue eyes on her as Osthryth kept on walking towards them, slower, looking for a way past, her hand hovered over the hilt of her sword.

"You are in Ulaid lands," one said, taller, broader. He leaned in his sword, elbows wide.

"Forgive me," Osthryth replied. The man would strike, she knew.

"You are of the Uì Nèill," the second warrior said then, fleet of foot, he was in front of her in seconds. "Give me what you have. It belongs to us: that sand belongs to us."

Osthryth put down her basket carefully. These men were of the Uì Nèill's rival faction, occupying land to the east. Were these two men why she, with the ability to fight, sent for squid? Did Muire know that she was sending her into the land of their enemy?

"And the heathen? They took your property too, if this is your land, and you are not just trying to rob a humble servant of the fruits of her labour."

"We let the heathen; they give us reliable healing. We do not let thieving Uì Nèill take what they want." The larger man stood close to the first.

"If this is yours," Osthryth said, carefully, pulling out her sword, "fight me for it."

"Fight you - " But that was all he could say. Osthryth bent, swiftly, then charged at him, shoulder down. The man lost his balance, and she turned, clashing blades with the other. Then, she stamped on the groin of the first, who had indeed fallen.

The man howled in pain, but Osthryth didn't look, instead dodged a blow from the second, dropping low and slipping between his legs, pulling one towards another.

As he toppled, Osthryth sprang to her feet, sheathing Faedersword, and taking up her basket, running away, fast, and not stopping until she knew they had not been followed.

As she loped wearily towards the monastery, the line of the river snaking south on which the fortress palace of the Uì Nèill stood, another pair of eyes watched her pass by.

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All that week, Osthryth returned for squid. Her catch was scant and took a long time to collect enough, delayed as she looked out for the two men who had challenged her and she had fought.

A few times she saw the heathen boy, Finn, who was collecting his own squid and other plants, and her heart glowed with her guilty plan: if the heathens were on the move when the squid had stopped coming to the waters, then she could travel with them, over to Northumbria and head south, or Cymru and south west, by offering them her sword.

But it wasn't until four days that Bheatha appeared with Finn, helping him collect sea pinks from between the rock crevices.

"Are you in need of a poultice?" the heathen woman asked, as Osthryth approached. When she shook her head, Bheatha asked, "Then what could you want of us?"

"When do you travel?"

"We do not travel with Christians," she turbed coldly away from her.

"I do not belong here," Osthryth pressed.

"I know," Bheatha replied, looking out to sea. "You come from over the sea, from Brythonyic Mòr. You have family. You seek family."

"I have money, I have silver." Bheatha seemed to consider this. "Or, my sword?"

"I like you," Bheatha smiled. "You are complicated."

She did not meet the Ulaid men as she climbed the rocks that evening. But, as she strode the path along the river, a tiny figure got larger as she walked. It was Constantine.

"I was supposed to come with you," Constantine panted, as he raced to her. "I looked for you."

"I went out early," Osthryth replied, her heart lower at her rebuttal from the heathen woman, but a glimmer of hope still remained.

"Mairi followed you and saw you talking to the heathen. She told Aunt Muire." A little further back from Osthryth, the troublesome girl grinned in triumph at Osthryth's discomfort.

"Come on!" Constantine urged. Domhnall wants to see both of us.

The stables were not the most fitting part to receive the news, Osthryth reflected. Constantine tore past the brown mare, treading in her straw. In the empty stall, at the back, Finnolai and Feargus wete already waiting. Past Osthryth strode the tall, blonde-haired Taigh.

"What is this about?" Osthryth asked. And in half an hour, she would know: Aed mac Àlpin had been besieged at Dunnottar by a combined army of Strathclyde Cymric and a Pictish army raised from Caithness. He had fought, with the pro-Gaelish monks at his side, having met them with strength at Nrurim, hoping to trap them in tbe low waters. Giric had taken the crown and Constantine's father had been left for the crows, his men forced to change alliegance

Constantine had stalked out of the stables, shrugging off Osthryth's attempts at comfort. And, after all the telling, Domhnall, the next Gael in line for the Pictish throne, seemed to have aged before her eyes.

Osthryth lay awake until the morning, images of the king, tall, benevolent, ferocious, and Dunnottar. Of Glymrie, the antithesis of the Uì Nèill palace cook, and of the fishermen from Frisia, of her friend, Gert, and his older brother Ulf, and of the irascible housekeeper Ealasaid.

And her last thoughts, as dawn broke and Osthryth's eyes succumbed to the anaesthesia of sleep, were of Ceinid, head of Aed's household guard, of his death at the hands of the cunning usurper Giric, for he was the King's most faithful. And how his touch stole her breath away.

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There would be one or two days of the squid in the temperate sea water before they dusapoeared with the currents to the highland waters. Osthryth had not seen the heathen, since Bheatha had turned her down, and of the Ulaid warriors, nothing at all. Yet still, Constantine, with the obedience of a hound, waited before dawn outside the kitchens and would accompany her to the coast.

He had changed since the news of his father, Osthryth thought. Gone was the petulant, needy child, who would babble and whine. Now, next to Osthryth a young man strode, taller than Osthryth, and comtemplative.

"You do not need to come," Osthryth said that morning, as she had said every morning since he had waited for her.

"There Norse, Ulaid, heathens," Constantine told her. "And you are not to speak to them."

Osthryth breathed as they came to where the path narrowed, before it led down the cliffs and out into thevwide bay and the north Irish coast.

She had hoped the heathens might come back, despite Bheatha and her pledge to meet in two moons' time. Guilt plagued her: she was Domhnall's man: though he wouldn't take her oath, he cared for her and treated her with respect, like he did for Tadhg and Feargus and Finnolai. Well, not exactly like Finnolai. How could she even think to leave his side and travel with the heathens?

Domhnall had offered to find her a husband, someone Gaelish, and that she could work for Muire and the King, Aed Findlaith. But she did not belong here. She would be humped, and what was humping other than lying down and your lover pushing up and down?

And she would be trapped and might never reach Uhtred, that golden light in her mind telling her where he was would dim and fade. And she would come with child, and most likely die as it was born.

And, if she didn't move fast, Osthryth knew, for she had had little opportunity to search the monks' correspondence by going to the sea each day, Uhtred may not remain in Wessex.

When they had climbed down the rocks, and onto the sand, rather than wait for her harvest the strand, Constantine pulled her towards him. She dropped her basket in surprise.

"Kiss me, Osthryth," Constantine commanded. Impetupusly, Osthryth approached the prince, leaning forward, and looking into his pale grey eyes. Then, she pecked him on the forehead.

"No," he demanded, stalking towards her. Then he seized her wrists, so she could not threaten him with Faedersword, pressing her back towards the cliff-face.

He pushed his face close to her, then his lips to hers. Osthryth kissed him back, hating herself for liking it, and liking Constantine for daring to get what he wanted.

But this must not last. He was betrothed to a Ui Neill princess, as Domhnall was; he would, in time, reclaim his father's throne for Domhnall and would have sons with the same ambiton he had - that his sheinir, Ceinid mac Àlpin had: to rule all of Alba, subsuming Pictland, Strathclyde, Caithness and Fortriu under one king, and reclaiming Bernicia down to the wall. They often spoke of it and, daily, plans were discussed, laid and re-laid.

Neither of them heard two pairs of footsteps approach from above and, until one of the young Ulaid warriors had struck Constantine in the stomach and held him fast by both of his arms, neither of them realised they were being hunted. Osthryth withdrew her sword. The bigger warrior shook his head.

"Will not fight you," he spat, holding an arm to Osthruth's shoulder, and pushed her back harshly towards the wall. "We will fight him."

"My brother has some vengeance to redress," the younger warrior added, holding Constantine tightly around the throat.

Osthryth made to duck under the bigger warrior's arm, but he pushed her past.

"He will fight me; you will fight my brother."

"No!" protested Constantine.

"I will fight both of you!" declared Osthryth, "Like I did last time." She saw Constantine's eyes widen. Then, the bigger warrior took out his sword, and held it close to Constantine's crotch.

"You fight both of us, and win," the warrior said, twisting his face, grotesquely, "or the prince of the Uì Nèill will be the last of his direct line!"

"Tha i glè làidir!" Cobstantine shouted back at him. "She is very strong!" Surprise crossed the big warrior's face as he turned back to Osthryth, a slow, lazy smirk illustrating his features.

"She?" He took the hand pressing Osthryth to the rock, and trailed it down her face.

"Bòidheach," mocked the other one, and to Constantine, asked, pulling back on his arms, "Does she hump well?"

"You have no need to fight, sweetheart," the bigger warrior cooed. "Keep your prince, but hand over that mighty sword of yours."

"You want this?" Osthryth cooed back, bit it had been a feint, and she had slipped under the bigger warrior's arm. It was now he who was pinned against the rock, Faedersword's tip to his throat.

"Touch the prince, and I will kill him," she told the smaller Ulaid warrior.

Uncertainty flashed over the man's features, and he loosened his grip on Constantine, at which point, Constantine mac Aed fought. He fought, and fought, kicking and jabbing and punching, Osthryth watching the pent-up grief of his father and his lost kingdom leave him, not caring what blows he sustained in return.

But the bigger warrior knew some tricks, and seized Faedersword, twisting it out of Osthryth's hand. He flung her to the floor, but Osthryth twisted the sword, the warrior landing awkwardly on her leg as she grappled with it with her crippled left hand.

Swiftly, painfully, Osthryth pulked her leg out, avoiding being pulled back over by the warrior's grasp, which clutched at nothing as she rolled away. He lunged again, and this time, Osthryth struck out at the Ulaid, his arm swinging back against the rock as he screamed in agony. At her feet fell his little finger, and next to it, Faedersword.

Constantine and Osthryth scaled the rock path as the smaller Ulaid consoled the larger, blood staining the sand. They did not stop running until they reached the river, the monastery and the palace, tearing past a ferocious Domnall, screaming insults at them as they went.

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That night, Osthryth did not lie awake on her stiff, straw-filled mattress listening to the servant girls chattering away so fast that she could not understand them. Constantine wanted her by him, gaining entrance to the servants' rooms.

"I am sorry about your sword," Constantine said. Osthryth said nothing, but lay under the rich, woollen blanket, under the linen sheet. She took his hand.

"I am sorry about your father." Constantine moved his head over, his eyes resting on her features in the moonlight, but said nothing.

At length, Constantine whispered warmly, by her ear, "They may come here, send people here. Domnall said he would hand me over the first chance he got. He is bitter bevause I best him at every fight."

"Domnall is a streak of dunnock's shit," Osthryth murmured.

"You will not say that, you cannot say that." Coldness was in his speech now, as he backed away from her, turning his face away. "You are just a servant, whatever Domhnall says; you are a mere..you are just..."

Then, Constantine put his hands on her shoulder, pushing her back to the featherdown mattress, his weight shifting across her.

"Don't make a sound: you gave your word to Domhnall - and me, that you would fight anyone who would try."

Osthryth pushed back, but Constantine was too strong for her. As he pressed into her, moving his body up and down, his manhood in and out, over and over, she was glad to have taken the lily root.

Despite what she had vowed, she had given in to him, though it felt like a damp inconvenience to her. Yet she felt a closeness to Constantine, and Domhnall that she had never found with anyone, even Beocca.

"Come on! Get up! Both of you!"

Morning had arrived, although it felt to Osthryth as if she had only closed her eyes minutes ago. A cold breeze shot over her flesh as the covers were flung off them both.

"Get up, Constantine, you are needed."

"It's night!" moaned the prince.

"It's nearly dawn." Domhnall looked over Osthryth's naked body as she began to pull on her woollens, which were in the granite floor.

"Why?" moaned Constantine.

"All are needed." Domhnall looked at Osthryth again, who had his back to him abd was doing up the laces in the back of her cotton undergarments.

"They will do a census."

"Why?" groaned Cobstantine, sullenly. Domhnall passed Osthryth her trousers and leather jerkin and, a frown of disapproval passing over his features.

"King Aed Findliath of the Uì Nèill, our aunt's husband, is dead."

And it would be a new world, Osthryth thought, later. Other Irish kings would make their bid for the Northern Uì Nèill territory, and Osthryth had to be ready.

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900AD

They processed to Stirling and on to Scone five months after Domhnall mac Àlpin was taken to Iona and buried, Constantine overseeing the resting place of his cousin and closest kin.

It was bad luck to crown a king in the winter, the heathen said. They began their new year at Samhain and, to Midwinter, death stalked their thoughts. But, it was a few months into the Christian new year; Easter had been observed and the whole of the kingdom felt lifted by the young, warrior king.

Damage made by the Norse and dissenting, Giric-factions had been repaired and Dunnottar had been refortified as Constantine travelled to the kingdom of Dal Riada to place his foot in the rock at Dunadd, the ancient hillfort beloved of the secretive heathen, Osthryth was reliably informed, by Aeos, the daughter of the heathen woman she once visited.

The royal household were to meet the progressing royals as they crossed the Trossachs mountains and in to the lower land, crossing from Dal Riada to Pictland. It meant Osthryth too, young Eira, one of Osthryth's once-pupils in Doire's ColmCille monastery, though Mairi stuck up her nose and sniffed at the idea.

Baby Aedre still took her milk, and had sought Osthryth's nipple as Constantine stood outside the kirk, cold wind rushing through hair and cloak, kneeling on the stone Domhnall had brought from Tara placed with difficulty on the border of three of the ancient Pictish kingdoms.

Domhnall had chosen well, Osthryth thought, as the six-month little girl changed sides: a red sandstone cuboid, hewn from a cliff-face in Tara, at the wedding of Mael Muire and Flann Sinna, the physical land of the Gaels' origin transplanted into their new kingdom. Domhnall mac Àlpin was the king of all Alba, and the symbolism was not lost on the lords of Pictland: the Gaelish princes had brought their land with them.

Osthryth had not been at Domhnall's coronation, but she could imagine it was not too dissimilar to the ceremony before her. As the abbots of Culdees and Iona brought their words of praise to the king, the lords of Pictland knelt about the stone, swearing fealty as their fingers rubbed at the stone, soft grains coming away and blessing their fingers, the new king's successor at his right.

For Constantine, this was Ildubh. The little boy, ten years old, stood proudly next to his father, baby Cellach, his brother, in his mother Eira's arms; young MaelColm, Domhnall's son, holding his mother, Mairi's hand.

And, as the circlet of gold was placed on Constantine's head, Osthryth closed her eyes, echoing the prayers of the monks, who proclaimed him in their writings as King of Alba: let him be a good king, she prayed. Let him be just to the people of both Pictland and Dal Riada. Let him be just for the whole of Alba, as Alfred was for Wessex. Even if that did mean devious, slippery trickery to gain the land he wanted. Let the Chronicle write of his glory.  
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It had taken Osthryth some months to settle into a routine. Unlike when Aed was king, her daily life was pinctuated with reminders of the lord she was never, formally, able to swear to: Domhnall's death had been a violent one and fear of reprisals was ever present - reprisals of the followers of Giric, despite so many who had been despatched as Domhnall fought for the throne of his ancestor, Ceinid mac Àlpin, and had won. So, her promise to Constantine that she would spy for him had not been translated into anything tangible.

"Have you considered," Constantine asked one night, as he sat in the ebony-panelled throne room of Dunnottar's fortress, "Ceinid, head of my father's guard, has never married."

Osthryth, sitting by the fire, looking into the flames as the cool of the late summer reminded all that salad days were passing, turned. This routine of retiring late at night to talk to one another had grown from Constantine's return to Dunnottar. He had not slept that night, and Osthryth, who had been feeding Aedre, had found him striding towards the throne room.

He invited her in, and she had sat. Tonight, Aedre was sleeping, coming only to Osthryth when she wouldn't settle with her nurse.

"He has waited for you, I believe, Osthryth, even when there was no hope of you ever returning."

Osthryth considered Ceinid, her heart filling with affection. He had evaded death on the battlefield, when Aed had fought Eochaid and Giric's combined forces, all those years ago, rescuing half a dozen men. He had co-ordinated policy with Owain, Eochaid's successor. King Eochaid, of the Strathclyde Cymric, had fallen asleep, too, just as Aed Findlaich had. Ceinid had risked his position in the palace, even his life, to let her go, once.

"I had not discounted Ceinid," Osthryth said, the man who had taught her Brittonic Cymric when she was twelve and had just arrived at Dunnottar, a thin, disagreeable child. It had helped her speak to the heathen at Dunnottar village, get what she needed which could never be obtained from a Christian healer, Aeos's mother, the wise, white-haired, kindly woman. He did not deserve what she was, Osthryth knew, and what she was going to become.

And yet, was that the true reason? Even now, as night flirted with morning, the time all truths were borne, Osthryth could not bring herself to admit to herself the soul-wrenching primal desire that she felt when Finan the Agile would kiss her, would hold her, would love her. Finan Mòr she called him between themselves. She had chosen many men to enter her body, but only Finan the Mighty into her heart.

"If I marry, I cannot spy," Osthryth reasoned as ger heart quickened, looking back into the curling flames. "Baby Aedre would be left homeless."

"No," Constantine replied. "I like the child. She is not like any of my children, not Domhnall's son. She looks round when people come into the room; her eyes are bright."

"I nearly did not come," Osthryth said, softly.

"The water." She turned to Constantine. He knew well enough: he had been there when it had happened.

"Edward Rex will soon be crowned king," Constantine continued. "The monks shared this news with me just this morning

Monks were gossips: Osthryth knew that, writing to one another with news of their kingdoms.

"Here." Osthryth got up from her place by the fire, and crossed to the king. Into his hand, she placed two coins.

"King Alfred," Osthryth nodded. "He had these made as the last king of Mercia fled his kingdom."

"And subsumed it," Constantine finished, the dual-headed silver coins showing Alfred and Coenwulf as equal rulers of Mercia rested in his hand.  
"And, when Aethelflaed married Aethelstan, he accepted Aelfred as overlord of Mercia, and Aelfred Rex Anglorum." She looked at the candlelight playing on the surface.

"He is just doing just what Flann has done," Constantine concluded, closing his hands over the coins.

"Except, Flann did not have the depth of trouble with the Norse as he did, nor us, nor the Danes. Can't you see? Edward is becoming expansionist." Constantine shuffled in his seat. "He has more support than Flann."

"I am Flann Sinna will do something to stop the Norse. His idea is settlement and assimilation is a good one. Besides, his son does has risen up too many times, Flann is too powerful, and too many people lost the goodwill under the parley."

"Constantine," Osthryth said, slowly, trying not to sound belittling. "The Eireann spend their time equally assimilating the foreign Norse or fighting them. It would take a leader of the first Irish peoples, not a Gaelish overlord, one from Connacht or Limerick to declare the Norse are foreign invaders and end the claim they have rights in Eireann. "It is good that the Norse fight one another themselves."

It was the truth, and Osthryth knew that Constantine would not like it. Predictably, he rose from his throne and bore down on Osthryth, but the gesture had no heat in it.

It had malice though, and he caught he by her deformed left hand and swing her to her feet, though it was not so easy as it once had been for him. He closed down on her, breath of stale ale and chicken flesh.

"No!" Osthryth said, as the familiar grip found her wrists. "We are no longer chikdren, Constantine. You will not take me!" And, in response in an oft-practised move, she seized his forearms with her hands and tore outwards. The king dropped his wrists, and fell back for a moment, then looked back to Osthryth, a look in his eye. She had seen it before, as a child, when he sought to work something out, calculating outcomes and strategy.

"You have changed, Aedre Uhtredsdottir," Constantine said. "And I do now believe you can spy for me." He stepped back a little, then looked back at her again. His look this time was unfamiliar to her, was it disbelief? Unknowing? Respect?

"And what would you have me do, my Lord?" It was the first time Osthryth had addressed Constantine mac Àed as such; she had said it many times before, to royalty, to nobility. There had, however only ever been one occasion that she had truly meant it.

"You will remain here," he continued, standing tall, his black hair catching the firelight. "Your first task in my service is to travel, every day, over the water to our most holy monastery. You will sit with the monastic scribes and detail everything - everything - of Wessex and the other kingdoms you know, too."

He had changed from that child she once knew, who would tear a manuscript into pieces rather than read it. His time in Ireland with his kin had honed Constantine to become the skilled politician that he was. Osthryth knew that she was being tested, that her loyalty was under scrutiny, and that this child she had brought with her for his care could turn, in a heartbeat into a hostage, in the fashion of his Gaelish family.

He was still not the most skilled on the battlefield; Ceinid had confided this: his sword and he yet to be one. But he did not need it to be: his kingdoms were no longer under direct threat from the Norse; where they settled he formed a trade deal though, despite saying the baptismal words, Constantine knew they were still pagan.

It would not have done for Alfred: that king wanted body and soul submission from the Danes. Yet, Alfred's kingdom had been more savagely fought over than the Kingdoms in Alba, and where Constantine could not resolve a matter by force, gold locked with a mutual agreement of future trade and young sons brought resident in the came into play. For, Constantine said, without interest from both sides, wealth would just pour from Alba whenever the Norse shuffled a toe.

Constantine said she had changed, and so had he. Yet some things were the just as if she had never been away: the rhythm of the castle, with its food deliveries, trade at the harbour, peasants walking from it to the villages.

Osthryth inhaled, defeated. She knew what she had to do. Constantine had sheltered her and Aedre for the best part of a year, after she had made a promise. She took his hand.

"Come on," Osthryth said. "Come with me."

When she had closed the king's chamber door behind her, Osthryth lay herself on the covers of his bed. She saw Constantine frown, uncertain of her intentions.

"Lie next to me," Osthryth asked. And, as Constantine's weight sank onto the linen, and he swung himself down next to her, Osthryth found she was doing something she had never done in her life: she dissolved in to tears.

And after, as Constantine lay next to her, holding her as her shoulders shuddered from her release of twenty two years of emotion, she remembered the world for him, from her flight from Dunnottar, from her perverted fate, going along with the Frisian fishermen; through Wessex and Mercia, through the court of Alfred, in the scorn of Aethelflaed and the bed of Edward.

When she had thought she had finished, as dawn was lightening the foggy morn, Constantine asked her of Uhtred. And she told him, realisation now that the King of Alba's deepest desire was to reclaim and possess Northumbria, down to the wall and onwards.

Osthryth told him of her brother, all that Finan had confided the night before Alfred died, and made certain that she did not leave out any detail.

And, of course, her second brother, son of her mother and Aelfric who, her uncle had proclaimed, was Bebbanburg's heir.

For the only thing that made sense to Osthryth was to keep Aedre safe, and to do that, she must spy for Constantine. 


	7. The High King

Dedicated to Bernard Cornwell and his amazing adventures: I gave Uhtred a sister. Planned out and will include the Battle of Brunanburh - will I get there before the release of War Lord in October, when we find out BC's version? I also wanted to include some of the history of Ireland at the time - and wow! There was so much going on there, almost as much as in the Saxon Kingdoms, but not quite so revolutionary, maybe because they Christianised the Norse (to some extent) and fought them a bit more coherently, because they were smaller and had less disparate groups fighting - the original Irish who had once been the pagan, Iron Age Irish, and also the Gaels, who arrived from the western coast of Spain through trading routes. Plus, because the Romans had never conquered it, there was less infrastructure available to the Norse and they preferred the land in Northumbria, Wessex and Mercia - it wasn't worth the fight, and where it was, they stuck to the coasts.

Have you worked out what the title of this fic means yet?

Your reviews are genuinely valued. It's just a minute of your time to tell me what you think, and it really means such a lot. Thank you to you who have already reviewed.

7.

Harvest 879

The funeral procession took the route of the river as it flowed past them and towards the sea. The entirety of the royal court were with them, following the carriage on which the armoury, possessions and body of the deceased King Aed Findliath lay.

Osthryth walked with the servants. It was a chilly day. Tiny white flowers littered the short, well trodden grass, narrowing as it found the lower undulations and the wind tugged at clumps higher up on the hills. They had passed the town of the grassy water meadow where two rivers met and they had all rejoiced at the cool, refreshing river waters where the horses watered.

The last fortnight had been one Osthryth would only ever see once more in her life. The body of the kin, lay on a low bed in the as Queen Mael Muire addressed the palace's household as women, cloaked in black, stood at the four corners of the low table, watching the body, emitting a primal wailing around the king's body.

The wake would commence. Muire continued, over the wailing, from that moment, and that it was a blessing that, unlike her brother Aed, King of the Picts, Aed Findlaich had died in his sleep.

Morning found its way to the royal throne room, a weak sunlight, as if robbed, like the king, of its strength and might.

Feasting followed, and lasted all day and into the night, for fourteen days, as the marbhna-poets exalted the king's exploitsover the Leinster kings, those in Connaght and Munster, the Ulaid kings and the Norse. They told of his battles and reminded all he was the Rì Dabaill, the true king of all Eireann, while all the while women around the king wailed.

And now, they had passed Strabane, and were walking towards an Óghmaigh, to the monastery. It was still a good walk, Finnolai told her, as she held the hands if her two charges, the two little princes.

"I'm hungry!" Niall Glúbdubh squeezed Osthryth's hand. As the wake had gone on, she had been given responsibility of the young prince, and his cousin, MaelColm, and they were now all walking, despite horses which had carried them most of each days' way, to honour the king.

"Me too," little MaelColm echoed, taking her other hand. Osthryth drew them to the embankment, out of the procession, into a bed of clovers.

"Do not tell your mother," Osthryth instructed to young Niall, "nor your aunt," she added, to MaelColm. Both boys nodded in eager anticipation.

Osthryth watched as the warriors passed, making sure none of Domhnall's warriors saw her, and she removed a large hunk of bread taken at breakfast from her tunic. Splitting it between the two young boys, she watched two sets of jaws devour their shares quickly and they were soon back onto the path.

The monastery was in sight, but the boys were also tired, as well as hungry. They lingered back as Osthryth tried to stride on to catch up with the warriors. When MaelColm slumped onto the grass with a big, "Hmph!", Osthryth went back and picked him up in her arms. At once, Niall began to scream at the unfairness.

"Come on with me, Grubbyknees," said Tadhg who evidently had also stopped for a short time, "you can ride here, and I'll hold you." The tall, blonde warrior swung himself up gently up onto a roan-coated mare, and put the deceased king's second eldest son up in front of him.

"Won't be long now," Tadhg soothed, as the open plain stretched out before them. He held reins out to Osthryth, who took them. He meant for her to ride, Osthryth knew. Instead, she held the little boy to her hip, as she looked down on to the plain where they would next rest before travelling to the city where the ancient burials of royal kings, trailing the dappled-white mare behind her. She was no rider, and it would not do to risk the life of the little prince, who lay his tired head into her neck.

Osthryth looked at the land. They were no longer in Uì Nèill country, Tadhg explained as he rode slowly next to them. This was Airgíalla. They were kings in name only, for they owed their alliegance to the Uì Nèill for aid in their most recent battle against the Ulaid of the east.

"Saint Patrick rode here, once," Tadhg said to Niall Glúndubh, who was also leaning back in tiredness. "Do you know, he planted all the seamróg, all over here?" Grubbyknees' eyes widened and MaelColm leaned over, listening too.

"How?" The boy turned and put his pale grey eyes on the warrior.

"By walking over the land," Tadhg smiled. "God, is three in one, so he is: an Athair, agus a Mhic agus Spioraid Naoimh." He leaned forward, with a young clover in his hand. "Three parts, in one, altogether."

"You are a priest, Tadhg," Osthryth smiled. Tadhg looked turned his head and returned her smile.

"I can tell a story," the tall warrior acknowledged. "My mother's father was a seanchaí. He could tell the old stories, from dusk to dawn at mindwinter." Tadhg leaned towards her, lowering his voice.

'One night, he was invited into Scone, even though he was Gaelish." His eyes flashed with merriment. "King Drest wanted him to entertain him and the nobles, who were meeting there, while they waited to meet Ceinid mac Alpin. They thought the king of the Gaels wanted to sue for peace. Well," Tadhg shuffled Niall into a different position, "Drest listened to my seanair as he feasted, relaxing, with the other six nobles of Pictland, to the tales of battle and honour through the ages."

"Yes?" asked Grubbyknees, beginning to become enthralled.

"As they drank" continued Tadhg, his eyes sparkling in the summer afternoon's sunlight, "the Gaels, led by Domhnall's grandfather Ceinid, waited for them to be blind with the drink. Then, he pulled bolts from the benches, which he had spent a long time assembling, trapping the Picts with their king in pits in the earth, in them contained with deadly blades. And so, now," he added brightly, "the Gaels rule Pictland."

"Ruled," Osthryth murmured, as she frowned at Tadhg's horrific tale of treachery wrapped up so lyrically. "This is the cause of the uprising by Eochaid and Giric?"

"You are very well informed, for a servant," Tadhg nodded. .

"I am very underarmed for a warrior," Osthryth remarked, feeling, once again, the loss of Faedersword, as her thoughts drifted to the possibility of escape back over the sea again. "You tell your tales well, Tadhg of the Gaels," she added, remembering that her mother told her always to thank the storyteller, or they may lull you under a spell, to your doom.

"You will get another sword," Tadhg replied. "And by your arm, you will make it as good as the last."

Osthryth laughed at the warrior's words. They were indeed beguiling, soft like a bed of clover on a summer's day overlying tangleweed, bidding you to your own comfort while binding you path of its own.

"I'm still hungry," little Niall yawned, and then leaned into Tadhg's chest. He smiled down at Osthryth, as he made the horse canter, to catch up with the other warriors.

Osthryth looked down to little MaelColm: he too was asleep. And that night, exhausted with the journey as she lay on a bed of straw in the stables alongside Domhnall's other warriors, Osthryth's dreams would be filled with a Cumbraland Briton, holding up a small clover plant and enchanting the pagans with understanding of God.

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The procession marched on. They headed south west. This time, their destination was clear: up from the plain of green grew one large hill, and upon it, where once had been a hill fort, said to be the burial place of the goddess Macha, was St. Patrick's monastery.

Ahead of them rumbled the low cart, still watched over and wailed over by the mourning women. The monastery was their destination. It would be here that the body of the mighty Aed Findlaith, High King of the Irish would be laid to rest, at the most holiest of locations in the lands of the Uì Nèill.

Late the following afternoon, as she rode with two tired boys at the back of the kitchen cart, she watched Domhnall as he began walking with the royal group around the path that would take them up to the monastery. He had barely spoken to her since he had pulled Constantine from his bed on the morning of Aed Findlaich's death, his eyes narrowing with disapproval as Osthryth, too, had sat up in his cousin's bed.

Osthryth knew that, even of she was not really one of his warriors, and how ever informally she had given it, she had gone back on her word. What's more, his warriors knew there was something amiss: she had displeased the exiled heir to the Pictish throne, somehow.

But she could not approach Domhnall now: much as she would re-make her vow to him, Osthryth had felt she needed Constantine's closeness after their attack. So, she had to learn to be strong, to strengthen her feelings towards the boy now that he wasn't a boy but, at thirteen, a young man. And, for this young man less than three weeks had passed since the news of Aed mac Àlpin's murder at the hands of the usurpers, Eochaid and Giric - his father.

If he was feeling anything like Osthryth had felt, when she was made aware of her father's death on the battlefield, and the loss of her mother to become her aunt, then he would feel as if the sky and ground were pressing her, and she would climb and crawl, and find somewhere high and solitary in Bebbanburg, to feel the strong east wind rush through her hair and over her skin.

God spoke to her there, as he spoke to those blessed of saints: Cuthbert, Aidan and Chad all remarked that the forces of nature were divine communications. They were revered by the Saxons as well as the Northumbrians and, in the case of Aidan and Chad, in the heathen lands of Mercia too, last to stake their eternal life on Jesus Christ.

Yet, there was something heathen about attributing natural phenomena to the lord's doing. Kings did not proclaim that they looked for weather omens, even if they really did, and yet these men were, as saints, deeply blessed to sainthood, believing little more than heathens did.

Osthryth learned, one night in the barn with Feargus, Finnolei and Tadhg that Domhnall did not intend to challenge the throne, but remain with Constantine with their kin, this kin who was now on its way to the remarriage, for the sake of Dynasty, of their aunt to another Uì Nèill king.

Osthryth looked again on the dowager queen. Mael Muire had walked as if she were floating behind the carriage of her husband, silent and still as she paced, in a blue cloak, her dark hair glowing richly as it caught the summer sun.

"The gospels need to be completed in the monastery of Saint Patrick," Muire had told her, before they set out, and she gave the two young princes to her care. "Only those who had been trained at Ard Mhacha may spread the gospels." She had bent close to her ear, and whispered, "and the ink you collected will go to finish these gospels in this most sanctified of our places."

Aed Findlaich was put to rest early next morning. Osthryth was woken by Feargus before dawn and told to wait with his other warriors outside the monastery doors.

A cool wind blew her hair as the king was carried out on a bed covered with a silk cloth of red and gold. Domnall, the king's eldest son, held the front right corner; at the back, Domhnall. Next to Domhnall, a young man, as tall Domnall, but broader, with the same fiery hair as Aed. The same, fiery hair as the man at the front.

He was undoubtedly a king - a circlet of bright gold sat in amongst his bushy red hair - and he was undoubtedly the dead king's relative, for he stooped to carry Aed's body level with the other three men. In fact, he was so big, Osthryth thought, that he could have carried the body of the king himself.

The funeral procession strode slowly to the front if the monastery, where Muire stood with Mairi, Gormlaith and Eira, with Niall and MaelColm in hand.

With the warriors, behind the monks, Osthryth walked behind the body of Aed Findlaith. Constantine fell in next to them, his face solemn, his pale face even paler. He had not slept, Osthryth guessed. She thought about what she had promised herself and resisted the urge to take his hand.

"We - Domnhall and I - are not really the Irish king's relatives, "Constantine said, softly. "Once the king is buried, we with travel with Aunt Muire to Tara, and a festival will be called."

He pointed to the man at the front of the body, who had indeed, shouldered the king down, standing him upright, in a suit of armour. Only he could have managed that, Osthryth thought, given how large Aed Findlaich had been.

"Who is that man?" whispered back Osthryth, as the procession of cows given by the peasants lumbered behind. They were going to be slaughtered after the burial.

"Flann Sinna. He hopes to be made High King of Ireland. The nobles must vote. He is who Aunt Muire is to marry; he us already king of the Southern Uì Nèill - that will go in his favour.

Very shrewd, Osthryth thought, on both their parts. "Will he be king in the north?" Constantine nodded.

"He hates the Norse; wants to force them out. If he becomes High King, he might have the combined force to do that."

Then Constantine walked slowly over to the royal group, and stood between the tall Gormlaith and the spiteful Mairi, who turned her pale eyes upwards to him.

Osthryth drew her eyes back to the burial, and watched as Aed Findlaich was lowered into his grace. But not lengthways: Flann Sinna had moved Aed's body into the grave, a long, upright grave, and into a standing position. Around him, Muire passed Flann pieces of what looked like armour, a bowl, pots, a clay pipe, several highly decorated drinking cups made of animal horn, a checked gaming board and the king's weapons. Last to he lowered in was a bag of coins.

"And they say Ireland is a Christian country," Finnolai hissed, to Domhnall's warriors. "If the monks weren't here, it would look to me for all the world like a pagan burial. Especially with the airgeat."

"He's looking east, isn't he?" Feargus protested.

"North-east," Tadhg put in.

"That's the direction of Ulaid territory, sure?" Finnolai mused, catching Domhnall's eye. Osthryth saw the weight "And the damned Norse."

88888888

A feast was held in the monastery that evening. Osthryth, for once, was gifted a seat with the warriors. Meat was shared, the cows who had followed Aed Findlaich's body had been butchered.

At the royal table, Muire called for words to be spoken of for her husband, toasts to be made, ale to be poured. Domhnall looked so solemn, Osthryth thought, as she imbibed a little ale. The princes had been taken from Osthryth and were asleep in the monastery, the royal servants watching over them.

Constantine, sitting next to Domnall, also looked sore, bitter, and he was deep in conversation with Domnall: they had something in common, Osthryth guessed, as she discreetly excused herself and made her way to the stables: both had lost their fathers, and both their fathers had been kings of ancient lands.

Osthryth had made part of her way across the stony courtyard of St. Patrick's monastery, the evening still underscored by a streak of yellow, when voices drew her attention. She stooped behind a low wall, listening.

"And I tell you once again, Donnchada, if you do not know where the queen is, then neither do I!"

A shuffling of feet suggested someone was struggling against someone else. Osthryth craned to listen.

"You, treacherous insect! I know you work for my conniving father!" More scuffling. "If you have lain one finger on her!"

"She was not your mother!" the antagonistic voice retorted. "Your mother was Gormflaith of the Ulaid! Flann turned her over for Ethne!"

"And does Muire know? Does Domnall? She's his sister, his _true_ sister! Us he standing by and allowing it, to ingratiate himself with a future dynasty? Ethne is my own cousin, as Domnall is! Muire educates my dear sister, Gormlaith. You don't think - "

The voice stopped suddenly. In the darkness, Osthryth could feel a flush on her cheeks: it was her foot that had rested on loose stones, her fault that they had scraped, alerting the two men talking in whispers that they were being overheard.

She ran, kicking more stones as she went. Behind her, stones were kicked again.

Through the monastery garden, now in seed and being cleared, over tools and beds. Osthryth launched herself at the wa and scrambled up it, her arms feeling weaker than they usually did as she hung onto the wooden framework. Damn the ale, she cursed herself, as she scrabbled higher. She got up a little higher, but her leg was wrenched down. She kicked out, her foot impacting on skin: a head, she was guessing as the owner growled in pain.

She swung up, but her nails clawed at the wood, rather than grasp it. Osthryth fell, landing in a heap on someone below.

Hands grasped at her legs, her ankles, as she fought to escape. Another swift kick brought her out of reach and up into an apple tree. Osthryth climbed high as the commotion below.

"We have you now!" A triumphant voice below bellowed, as feet crunched on the tree detritus below. "And it will soon be morning. I have a sword!"

Osthryth closed her eyes. It was true. When she climbed down, everyone's eyes would be on her. Guilt swept over Osthryth as she imagined laughing eyes, mocking eyes. Eyes which belonged to the Uì Nèill and the monks and the children. Eyes belonging to Domhnall, to Constantine, narrowing in disappointment and shame.

Osthryth made a rustle in the tree canopy, and triumphant feet stopped pacing. She would come down, as best as she could. She would apologise in the morning.

But she found she could not go down: her feet coukd not find purchase, and her head swam. She climbed up, apples thudding to the ground as she went, over and over, making her way to the other side of the tree.

But, Osthryth found, there was no other side of the tree: no branches dipped down towards the ground.

A strip of paler blue underscored the night sky. Should she call down?

Osthryth carried on, tired arms gripping branch after branch. As the morning drew on, and she grew ever wearier, it occurred to her how big the tree actually was.

But, she was wrong. When, finally, she looked around, it was in astonishment: she was at the top of a tree canopy. But not the same tree as she had climbed: that had been the one on the other side of the wooden wall of the monastery. Osthryth realised she had climbed between dozens of trees, into the wood they had passed on their way in to St. Patrick's, the one which half-surrounded it, so high it was in the landscape.

With great care, Osthryth extracated herself from the branches of the tree she was in, her bodyweight stretching at her tendons as she climbed.

The door to the kitchen was pushed aside when she got to the north side of the monastery. An voice unibtelligible to her shouted as they heard a noise. It was the irascible cook, who was almost indistinguishable from the one in the kitchen at Doire. He bustled her in, shouting something angrily at Osthryth, which she couldn't make out, then thrust a bowlful of dirty root vegetables at her. Tired, though grateful, Osthryth turned a knife onto them, making them, in no time, into chunks that became the servants' dinner.

88888888

They travelled to Kells, or Ceanannas, as Tadhg said it, as Domnhall told his warriors the next morning and onwards they would be travelling to Tara.

The royal family at first, in front, with the children in a carriage, Domnall in front, with his step-mother, and ahead, Flann Sinna, with his son Donnchada, who had had the heated conversation two nights before with someone, and had chased Osthryth up the tree.

Osthryth had to manage on a horse, which was as bumpy and uncomfortable as it had been when she had first tried it in the meadows surrounding Scone. It took all her concentration to balance, to keep up with the warriors. She glanced, every so often, over to Donnchada, wondering what he had meant, and who Ethne was: she, who was in some sort of danger.

He had also called his own father "conniving", yet he rode adjacent the King of the southern Uì Nèill impassively, long, dark hair flowing out from his head, pale skin and grey eyes, a match for Domhnall and Constantine, strong gaze searching the road ahead.

"They want to proclaim the new High King of Eirean," Finnolai explained, as they packed up the horses. "Flann Sinna seeks the position, as well as Muire's hand to seal the deal, and take Tara with both the Southern and Northern kingdoms. But it isn't that straightforward: others will contest, and the lords must vote. It is called a Thing."

Like a witan, Osthryth thought, as she strode to the rooms of Queen Muire, who would have her take charge of the boys again. She knew what a witan was: Father Beocca had explained that the nobles in Wessex and Mercia agreed in their kings.

But not in Northumbria: Uhtreds had held the fortress for many an age, right back to Ida, the first from across the sea to claim the headland overlooking the sea from the northern Britons and had taken a Brittonic wife.

Osthryth looked across to Finnolai. She wanted to ask him about Domhnall: the prince looked worn, as if his spirit had been slowly draining over a long time. Maybe, though, if the "conniving father" of Donnchada, Flann Sinna, did become High King, he may offer Domnhall aid to retake his throne - an alliance of sone kind must be being worked through, or why were they still in Eirann now Findlaich was gone?

It took two days to get to Kells, once an Uì Nèill palace belonging to ColmCille. Now, a monastery founded by his Ionan monks, it could not have been more different to St. Patrick's.

Indeed, St ColmCille's monastery, as the royal family called it, was made of stone, and not wood, and the round tower which arose high from its centre could be seen for miles before the procession got to its sturdy walls and had once been a royal palace. As they got closer, the way was marked with Irish crosses, those type with a circle at the centre, uniting the heathens' sun-worship with that of the symbol of Christ Jesus, the Redeemer.

It was between two such crosses that Osthryth took Niall and MaelColm, as she looked over the land. Were they close to the sea? Osthryth wondered. Were there heathen here who might welcome a warrior, albeit without a weapon, to protect them if they were travelling, say, over the sea, maybe boat to Cumbraland, or Waeleas.

Though she had found her way to King Aed's court in Dunnottar, and could easily fall in with Domnhall's warrior, Osthryth reminded herself that despite this life, her main objective was to find her brother, for she knew her uncle Aelfric would never give up looking for her - for she was of value to him, and it must have angered him greatly that she had defied him.

Flexing her arrow-damaged hand, she approached the two boys who had again been put in her charge. Niall was playing with an ash tree branch, trying to defeat an oak tree a little beyond the round oratory where the monks slept; little MaelColm sitting by him, using his stick to make patterns in the leaf litter.

A little illicit bread taken from the monastery's kitchens an hour before tempted the two royal princes to abandon their games and sit next to Osthryth, who smiled at their eagerness where food was concerned, before taking them up to the rooms that the royal family were occupying.

The rooms were wide and spacious, the stone walls covered in highly decorative hangings.

"They are as old as ColmCille himself," Muire told her, as the boys ran to her. Osthryth felt herself pink in the cheek as she realised how lost in the thread detail she had become.

The queen was a sight to behold. No longer in black, she wore a blue dress, her dark hair flowed long over her shoulders. Her eyes were bright: she had done her mourning and now, like a flower opening up its petals to the warmth of the morning sun, her face was alive with girlish hopefulness. She might be the older sister of Gormlaith, maybe no more than twenty years old.

She explained to Osthryth that there would be a declaration of her marriage to Flann Sinna, and that the Southern Uì Nèill had met and accompanied him and his son down to Tara, where they would meet them for the wedding.

"Is it by the sea?" Osthryth asked. For by the sea meant heathens collecting its fruits.

"Yes," Muire nodded. "And I wish you to be in charge of the boys," the beautiful queen continued, taking Osthryth's hands, as lightly as a girl in her first days of courting might. "And, you will wear a dress, as befitting your sex. I know you are my nephew's warrior, but I must put my household to rights: after the wedding the Uì Nèill will hold our festival, and one such as that has not been held for many a year."

"Festival?"

"A parley, a meeting of all the Uì Nèill families, and our allies." Muire sighed and straightened out the material on her bodice, before crossing over to her son, Niall, and taking him in her arms. MaelColm, looked up, wide-eyed and the queen put down a hand to him.

"We have been at war with the Norse for so many years that the annual festival has been suspended. It is held every seven years or, at least, it was.

"New laws and duties are ordained and councils are formed; anyone who has been convicted of brealing laws is formally banished. Sometimes, the High King chooses to be lenient. Should there be the need for a new High King, he is elected." Muire sighed, remembering.

"The last time it was held was when my father brought me over the sea to be married to Aed Findlaich. The Norse have been subdued and have settled; we are at peace now, so we can meet as we always did."

It does not mean it will stay peaceful, Osthryth thought to herself, grimly. Northumberland, Lindisfarne, Pictland...they all thought the same, and the Norse and Danes returned, and it got worse. Instead, she nodded in agreement.

"I am sure your future husband has a plan to keep the peace," Osthryth added. Muire's carefree look vanished from her pale blue eyes, and she narrowed them towards Osthryth.

"You understand well," she said.

"My father discussed this with my brother, and with me. To gain peace it must be belied with strength and might, that was what he said." It wasn't necessarily a lie, if "father" meant Beocca, who had indeed voiced her father's words

"Yet, your father lost his life as a pilgrim on his way to Iona." Osthryth lowered her head.

"Indeed, Lady," she replied.

Muire put her hand softly under Osthryth's chin and raised her head gently.

"Look," Muire said, stepping towards a low table. "Here is what your effort hadls brought us." She leafed over the pages and showed Osthryth the leather-bound pages of the half-completed manuscript that Domhnall brought from Iona.

The pages were brilliant, in gold and red, richly illuminated with the four apostles' names in the Irish script, framed with the Gaelish swirls of the sra, unending chains, animals and tbevancient symbol of the Lord: a right hand of God, stained with iron oxide pigment. It was as if Osthryth was looking into heaven itself, made clear to man in parchment and pigment.

"Glorious, is it not?" Muire said, placing the book open on that page. "The monks here will continue with it, and will make it into a much larger book and use it for their rituals and to preach to the heathens . And I cannot let your effots go unrewarded.

"Now, I have a role for you. I know Constantine will not be without you, but you can continue being his companion no matter what you wear. I hace spoken to Domhnall, and he agrees for you to continue to care for the two boys."

"And the girls?" Osthryth thought of the three princesses who would lead the way each morning from the castle to the monastery, silent, obedient, perfect in their studies. Eira, the beautiful, young golden-fair girl who was never parted from the nervy, ever-watchful Gormlaith, Donnchada's sister. The black-haired, big-eyed Mairi was the one in charge, though, or thought she was.

"They are in my care - oh, Mairi!" The girl had walked into Muire's rooms. Niall amd MaelColm rushed to her. But the girl held aloft the fabric she was holding to prevent it from being creased. She held it out to Muire.

Osthryth had never seen anything like it before: cream linen with a silk bodice, beautiful pearls embroidered at the front, with ribbons at the sleeves and waist.

"Do you like it?"

"I like it," Osthryth nodded, looking at the way the light bounced off the silk. "But I am the daughter of an artisan - I cannot accept this."

"Nonsense!" Muire rebuffed her, looking about her head. "Your golden hair down, combed down to show your maiden-ness, and you will be glorious on my wedding day. So, shall I leave you with Mairi 's help?"

"Help?"

"My child, it is a dress I wish you to wear, as Constantine's companion and the princes' assistant. She is more than able to help you make the nest of a poor artisan's daughter." Muire gave one final glance over her shoulder, one of approval, then took the boys by their hands, pacing towards the rear door, through which Mairi had come. Osthryth's head shot back to the dress, and then to Muire.

"You wish me to wear it?" She looked over the dress again, ashamed that her first thoughts were of disappointment that she would not be able to keep the company she liked, nor ride, or fight.

"Yes, indeed," Muire nodded, as she continued in her ourward momentum, boys still in hand. "Mairi, show Osthryth how it goes on."

"But - " But Muire was not listening, and, within seconds, she had whisked herself out of her chambers. Osthryth looked at Mairi, who was looking back, scathingly.

"Aunt Muire said to bring this, Mairi sniffed, haughtily, "Although, if you ask me, it is a waste. And Eira - " The girl broke off, as if she had said too much.

"No-one asked you," retorted Osthryth, as Mairi's face pinked. "Pass me the wasted dress and leave."

A look of indignation passed over Mairi's face, which solidified to imperiousness. She turned on her heel then, over her shoulder, shot back, "You ought to know, my Aunt Muire did not approve of you feeding the children on our progress. Only a savage, ignorant Saxon would behave with such poor manners!"

And, maybe because she knew Osthryth was capable a physical response, Mairi skipped off back towards the door, haste in her steps as her thick, black hair swung about her shoulders.

88888888

A horse this time carried Osthryth south with the royal party. Green landscape surrounded them as they followed the royal party, low, undulating ground, softer rises and falls than those around Doire.

"St ColmCille was born here, in the Midh," Tadhg was telling Domhnall's warriors. "Some say, even at Teamhair."

"But, what is it?" asked Feargus.

"Ah, well, you see now," Tadhg replied. "You have Dunadd, do you not? For when Lord Domhnall becomes King of the Gaels?"

"And Scone," Finnolai chipped in, drawing his horse slower, to talk as the road curved leisurely around another gently-rising hill. "Scone is from where the Picts have long took their kingship. Domhnall will have to take both."

"You'd know about Domhnall taking things," Feargus chipped in, impertinently. Osthryth shot him a glance, just as Finnolai launched an apple pip at him.

"How will we know Teamhair?" She asked, changing the subject. "What does it look like?"

"It's a cnoc," Tadhg replied, "I have only ever seen it once, but it rises above the ground in all directions. There are five roads leading from it."

"And to it?" Feargus laughed, to which Tadhg replied, "Of course! We have followed the way from Doire itself, through Omagh, Armagh amd Kells. Our way is no accident."

Osthryth found herself looking over her shoulder. Whoever had built these roads, then, knew about the geography of Eireann. To her, the green rolling hills all looked the same to her.

"I have been to only one ceremony there - that was Aed Findlaich's wedding to Muire ingen Ceinid - the same lady who will be wed tomorrow. There is a long, narrow road with oak planks on it, which we must all take to follow her; there are hostages taken and placed on the hill - "

"Hostages?" asked Finnolai.

"Merely ceremonial, nowadays. To ensure no-one backs out of the wedding contract. And to prevent interruptions of the Synod as they decide the next High King. Laws are passed; prisoners are executed, or pardoned." He clicked his horse a little faster to keep up with the rest of the warriors. Osthryth did the same, clenching the reins as her mare picked up speed.

"We will eat at the Teach Miodhchuarta."

"Banqueting Hall?" transoated Feargus, interested. "The food will be good?"

"Don't get big ideas, little man," Tadhg laughed. "It is a big area next to the Lia Fael. We ate there last time, but the best food goes to our allies, to keep them our allies."

"Treachery!" declared Finnolai.

"It has not been held for many years now, though," Tadhg continued, "The Norse have occupied our warriors. And, of course, if Flann Sinna wants to become High King, he will have to marry Maeve, as well as Muire, at the Lia Fael, the Stone of Destiny. It howls three times when the correct King has ben elected."

"Maeve?" frowned Feargus.

"The goddess of the land," Finnolai scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Another pagan ritual that Christians still follow, and a howling stone!" Tadhg turned on him, rounding his horse in front of Finnolai.

"So, the footprint at Dunnadd was planted by Christ Jesus himself, was it? And you ignore the power of the sidhe at Samhain?" Tadhg's pale face reddened as shot hot words to the Gaelish warrior. "I was here last time! I heard it!"

"Must you argue?" Feargus complained, butting his horse between Tadhg's and Finnolai's. The two warriors backed away from Finnolai, then took up the path again, wordless, but annoyed.

There was silence for a while, as the royal party rounded another soft curved hill. Osthryth was behind again, and keeping up with thecwarriors was beginning to be an effort. So, she was surprised when Constantine and Domhnall flanked her. She smiled at them, grateful for a change of company from the squabbling warriors.

"It's been a long day, and tempers are difficult to keep," Domhnall nodded towards his warriors. "Within the hour we will be there."

He smacked his horse's reins and brought the animal to a canter, easily catching up with Finnolai, Feargus and Tadhg.

"You have ridden well, Osthryth," Constantine remarked. "And we are nearly there. We will camp and we will eat well."

"In the banqueting hall?" Osthryth asked. Constantine narrowed his eyes towards her.

"You know it?"

"Of it. Tadhg told us; he has been there before." Then, a thought ocvurred to her, and she frowned back to the prince.

"Tadhg spoke of hostages held at a hill. Constantine, what do you know if it?" At her serious face, the boy laughed.

"It holds people to guarantee loyalty to the next High King." But Osthryth continued to frown.

"Are you and Domhnall the hostages?"

As the realisation of the gravity of her question worked into his mind, Domhnall's voice called, "No, Osthryth. Constantine, and l - we are merely spectators, witnesses to our aunt's marriage."

Osthryth turned her had slowly to her lord. It was the first time since finding her with Constantine that he had spoken to her directly. For once, Constantine sensed that she wanted to speak to his cousin and reined his horse on. Osthryth slowed to a halt, as did Domhnall.

"My lord," Osthryth began, bowing her head as she made to say her apologies. But Domhnall nodded forward. She turned her head.

In the far distance, a green hill rose out of the landscape like the a sea kelpie, rippling the flat landcape around it.

"Teamhrach," Domhnall pointed. Then, a rare smile curved his lips. "We will rest there tonight." He reached over to Osthryth's horse, taking the rein.

"I regret that I did not honour my vow, my lord," Osthryth suddenly blurted out, unable to keep it to herself any longer. Domhnall stopped his horse and looked at her as she bowed her head. "And...I have no sword."

The heir to the Pictish and Dal Riadan thrones stared at her, then stroked the mane of her horse.

"You will have one again, I am sure, mo cróga," he replied, having declared her his warrior once more. Then, he gave her a smile.

"Greas ort do thóin, a-nis Osthryth, I do not want to be left with camp space downwind of the horses."

88888888

The afternoon was hard work. Sun beat down as Finnolai, Feargus and Osthryth tramped between the carts, fetching greased linen, slinging it over trees and fixing it securely to the ground, assembling Domnhall's chair of an ash set upon more greased linen, with woollen and linen bedding.

Around her, the languages of many coloured the air. She could understand little, but each tongue was distinguishable as Gaelish or Irish, mostly tongues of workers hurrying to do what she and the men were doing, that is, preparing for their lords from an assembage of carts, covered wagons and horse panniers.

Food was beginning to be cooked, tbe smell of pig and pheasant, hen and fish permeated the high summer air, making Osthryth's stomach grumble.

Between the four of them it took many hours, as the household of the dowager Findlaith guarded the stores, and eventually, as the temperature dropped, and evening settled upon them, with Domhnall's canvas room erect, the warriors were invited to follow their lord to collect food from the old cook, who had accompanied them down from Doire.

He gave Osthryth a foul look when she attempted to ask for bread, though she tried anyway, pointing to the loaves wrapped up in a thin linen cloth, but he stood between her and the bread, giving her another tirade.

"He thinks you are a changeling!" laughed Finnolai. He had closed in on her amd stood beside her, amusement around his cheeks.

"Well, I'm not!" protested Osthryth to the cook, who was glaring at her, wishing again that Glymrie, Dunottar's cook, who favoured her, had come with Domhnall amd Constantine, and was not feeding the usurpers Giric and Eochaid.

"Only a changeling would deny their true form!" Finnolai continued, laughing aloud at Osthryth's fury. "Come on, we can get some bread, and some milk too, from the sputhern Uì Nèill. I know a man who owes me a favour."

They brought the food back to the warriors, who sat in the shade of the ash trees, enjoying their victuals.

"I suppose I am with you tonight, but tomorrow I am to sleep with the royal household tomorrow," Osthryth told the warriors, when they discussed the next day's wedding.

"And whyever is that?" Tadhg asked, frowning as he chewed on a crust. "Did I not hear Prince Domhmall call you his brave one? Will you not be practising with us? You nearly had me, yesterday."

Osthryth smiled. Following the loss of Faedersword, the warriors had taken pity on her and had each loaned her theirs so she could keep up with her fighting skills. It was a regular thing that one or other would tell her that, had he fought with less skill, she would have bested him.

Osthryth knew better: she had bested each of them frequently. So, it was a regular thing that she pretended to agree with them. Burping, Finnolai got up and shook the crumbs from his clothes, then finished tacking their linen covering next to that of Domhnall.

"I must look after the little princes during the ceremony. The queen gave me a dress I have to wear, look." From under her tunic she took the folded fabric and shook it out.

It was uncreased and, in the evening sunlight, long rays glinted off the cream fibres and making the pearls glisten.

"You, in a dress?" teased Finnolai. Osthryth kicked a stone towards him, as if in jest. But, the truth was, she hated dresses. She couldn't move in them to climb, or fight.

The last dress she had to wear her uncle had brought to her two days before she would have been taken to Dunholm to the dane Kjartan for his son in exchange for loyalty to Bebbanburg. She rolled it up quickly and lay it down on the thick, linen groundsheet, pulling off her sword-strap and outer tunic and covering them over the dress.

"So, what will be happening tomorrow," asked Feargus. The lord has not told us of our role."

"From what I recall," Tadhg said, slowly, "and I had drunk quite a bit o' ale that day, King Aed processed down the avenue to the Stone of Destiny. The cailíen, Queen Muire that was, was brought along by her father." His fair hair blew around his head from the blustery wind, and the warrior pressed at his temples, as if to stimulate the memory.

"An abbott from Kells joined their hands and gold was given by Ceinid mac Alpin to Aed, and, some, some less, was given to the cailín. Then, we all drank and feasted, all night til the morning. The bálach and the cailín are hand-wed too, o' course, so they make the most of it." He grinned, amd winked at Finnolai and Feargus, who blushed almost as red as his hair.

"Hand-wed?" Osthryth asked, as a young boy leading a donkey helped it pick its way between Domhnall's tent ropes.

"Hand-wed," Tadhg repeated, taking hold of the right wrist. "The King of the South, who might, the day after, be High King, like his cousin, Aed Findlaith, will marry the dowager queen."

He pulled Osthryth closer, his face suddenly taking on a serious tone. He looked right into her eyes, and gripped further up her arm; she in turn felt the urge to hold his.

"The young people, who want to be wed, will try it for one year, 'til the Parley is held again here at Teamhrach. Then, they will be asked again whether they want to stay wed. The bálach will look at the cailín and say, 'I will be your fear as wed, until harvest next, be only in your thoughts, only in your heart and only a hand away.' And then the cailín says - "

"I will be your bean as wed, until harvest next," Osthryth found herself repeating Tadhg's words, fixing his brilliant blue eyes with her own dull blue-green ones, "Be only in your thoughts, only in your heart and only a hand away."

The world melted away. Locked arm-in-arm, Tadhg and Osthryth were the only two people at this ancient Irish ceremonial ground. Them, and the green earth, the sidhe, and the old gods of the heathens.

"Come on," insisted Feargus, breaking the spell as Finnolai mock-applauded the happy couple while they unlinked arms and laughed, "I'm still starving, and the night's roast should be ready." He pointed across the Banqueting Hall. "We'll be on grease and crusts if we don't get a move on."

Food and speeches filled the glorious summer evening. The warriors and royals alike heard of the brave deeds of Flann Sinna against the Norse and seanchai told stories of the Eireann isles, of the fear dearg, Finn mac Fionn's bràdan feasa and the sidhe

and the gods of old just beyond as tbe sun sank slowly towards the western horizon.

Then, the night was filled with little dots of lantern-light and it seemed to Osthryth as if the stars had tumbled from the sky to bring comfort and happiness to the myriad factions gathered at this old hill, as their ancestors had, from time immemorial.

"I reckon Flann will have to call on the Morrigan," Tadhg said, as the four stumbled to where they guessed their tent was. "Queen Mab was there tonight, as we hand-wed," he teased Osthryth, who gave the Irish warrior a "Don't-ever-mention-that-again-to-anyone-ever" look.

He grinned, then smoothed his fair hair with his hands as Finnolai looked round with resigned uncertainty, thoughts of challenging his friend over heathen mythology far from his mind.

"We can sleep under the hedgerow," he suggested, as they stumbled about the campsite. "Only if we can't find it," he added, hastily as Feargus, Osthryth and Tadhg frowned at him, scornfully. "I know we are not downwind of the horses; that poor honour went to the guards of Flann Sinna's son."

"He will be in a foul mood tomorrow, then," Tadhg remarked. "Rumour has it, he hates his father so much that he is going to challenge him at the election of High King."

"Then Donnchada should be marrying Muire," Finnolai said, shaking his head, "And he's not, is she?" He tripped over a rope supporting the corner of a canvas belonging to the farriers. One came out and grumbled loudly to him in word that, after a good deal of weak ale, Osthryth could not discern, although she was sure one word had been, "draich" and another, "chnap".

"It isn't a pre-requisite," replied Tadhg, who then pointed in the direction of the Hill of Hostages. "We were over there, weren't we?"

"Yes, my fine warriors, you are," Domhnall replied, walkingtowards tbem from their camp. "Trust you had a fine evening."

"We did indeed, Lord," Feargus drawled, the ale at his head. "Beimid ag ól!"

"No, Feargus," Tadhg said, clapping the young warrior on the shoulder. We have already had it tonight."

"Right, I dare say I do not need a guard tonight - go and rest, my men; keep Osthryth safe," the prince added.

Before Osthryth could protest that she was the soberest one of them all, Domhnall, now more carefree than he had been on the progress since Armagh, or even Doire, beckoned towards Finnolai, who followed him at once.

Be up early, Osthryth told herself, as Feargus and Tadhd held the flap open for her, giving a mock-bow, her hand-wed husband adding, "My Lady", with a flourishing bow. Be clean and presentable for this beautiful dress, then you can give it back and then you can get out of it, give it back to the queen and put your own clothes on.

It was late in the night, as the noise and the singing had begun to quieten down that Osthryth began to close her eyes. Go down to the sea, Osthryth repeated to herself, go at dawn. Make sure you do not let the queen down.

Much later, and a rustling came to her ears. She listened in the darkness to thw background noises. This, however, was not the faint undercurrent of a whisper. Nor was it Feargus, nor Tadhg: their exhalations of breath out of unison made it clear they were asleep.

No, it was not the warriors. Osthryth felt for Faedersword by instinct, cursing herself when she remembered she was without it.

Another creak, this time of canvas moving rapidly. Osthryth was on her feet, arms out in the darkness to feel who or what was clearly coming in.

"Osthryth!" Constantine's voice hissed in the darkness. "I need you."

"Constantine?" She felt around in the darkness, and found his arm.

"Osthryth, I need you." He groped for her, feeling across her shoulders then smoothing down her untucked tunic, his hands feeling up it again, his hands feeling up for her breasts. Osthryth shot back, tripping over her bundle of day-clothing and her dress.

Constantine scrabbled in the darkness for her on the floor, his hands finding her shoulders again, his lips finding hers. Though he was stronger, Osthryth reminded herself that she was nimbler, and to use that to her advantage.

But, it was too late. As Osthryth turned to wriggle out from under him, panic rose in her stomach. He had never tried to kiss or touch her before, and Osthryth pushed him off. He flopped back, but then fought himself over to her and tried to kiss her again.

"No, Constantine! Cha toil leam e!" Osthryth shouted, her words diminished as he found the rest of her body and knelt over her, kissing her full in the mouth and holding her shoulders down to the linen groundsheet. She felt moisture on her face. Tears. Constantine's. He broke away.

"I am betrothed, Osthryth," Constantine complained bitterly, wiping an arm across his face. "Domhnall too. But I do not want Eira, I want you."

"Constantine," Osthryth interjected. "I cannot marry you: I will not marry anyone!" And, a jest of a thought played around the periphery of her consciousness which reminded her, "You are already, for a year."

"Then, just come with me, be with me, Osthryth!" There was triumph in his voice, as if he had just thought of a brilliant plan. "I have seen you looking out to sea. We could go to sea!"

"No, Constantine," Osthryth protested, still struggling, but failing to remove herself from under Constantine's body. "You will be king in Alba one day. I am your companion - " At this, his eyes widened and he began to kiss her, roughly.

"Your champion! I fight for you, nothing more!" Osthryth managed, jerking her head to one side.

"Come on!" Constantine growled, his weight suddenly lifting off Osthryth. She fought to get from his grip, from his face which was polluted by his ale breath. But, he was too quick, quicker than her in the darkness as he anticipated that Osthryth would run. Constantine seized her by the wrist and pulled her up, pulling her behind him as they left the tent.

A deep, sudden snort suggested that she had stepped on one of the warriors, but no apologising could be done as Constantine pulled her after him, over linen, over grass, over stones. The cold night air hit her face hard, and Osthryth gasped, taking a lungful, her shoulders aching as the prince pulled her on, pressing her up against bark of the oak tree from which their tent hung. The hardness in his breeches made it clear to Osthryth what he wanted and he began to work his way down inside her breeches.

She struggled, trying to get his hand away but the swish of canvas behind her as Finnolai and Tadhg stood behind Constantine was what caused him to pull away from her. In the moonlight, it looked as if they were about to jump on the prince, though to attack a noble meant death.

"Osthryth, do you think you ought to be getting yer beauty sleep?" Tadhg inquired. "Only, yer have a long day tomorrow, and Muire will not be thanking yer if the boy-princes are not well attended."

Osthryth looked over with relief when she saw the warrior's face picked out in the moonlight. Constantine's hands loosened their grip. He scowled at Osthryth, and then at Tadhg.

"I - " she began, her heart lightening as she saw Domhnall striding over to them. He glared at Constantine, who frowned deeply back to his cousin. Then, shooting Osthryth a foul look too, the prince stalked off into the darkness.

Osthryth made to follow, but Domhnall stood in front of her and put a hand on her wrist, waving away his three warriors.

"His father's death weighs heavily," he explained, as Osthryth felt herself begin to shake. "Now, go, mo churaidh. Sleep, for you are needed tomorrow."

But Osthryth could not sleep, no matter how hard she tried. Her eyes would close, but unconsciousnes evaded her. Instead, she got up, careful to step over the three bodues now, which took over most of the tent.

The air was cool and refreshing now; the moon had passed its zenith and was now heading to the opposite horizon. Dawn was some way off.

Osthryth picked a path out of the camp, taking what looked like a well worn route which she gauged took her to the sea.

It was the wrong time if day for any heathen to be here - few came at night for the natural resourves they needed for medicines or their religious rituals.

The time to come would be the day - mid-morning, just as the tide was moving and the sea creatures were high up in rockpools, unlucky to be left behind as the sea retreated. And they might even chance on the Fair of Tara for business opportunities: many like Tadhg, who were indeed Christian, also believed, deepdown, in the old ways.

Osthryth closed her eyes. A cold, easterly wind blew across the sand, whipping at her face, but otherwise, nothing but silence persisted as mute contellations inched overhead and dipped beloe the horizon.

She looked east again. Just over there, was Cumbraland, or Waeleas...if she were to find the heathen and offer to them what she had offered to Beatha, her warrior-arm for passage.

Will you admit, even to yourself this morning, Osthryth's mind cautioned her, sternly, that there is another reason you seek them?

Yes, she fought back with herself. I know deep down something's wrong with my body.

As dawn twinkled over the horizon, Osthryth strode into the sea in her cotton undergarments and, with the last of the fern, washed her body and hair, before making her way up to the royal encampment.

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Only Finnolai was awake when Osthryth returned to the warriors' tent. He nodded as she returned, and Osthryth was grateful that he said nothing of the previous night.

He seemed to have something on his mind, as Domhnall's favourite looked at the sky, the wisps of horse-tail vapours high up in the morning sky.

"I have to go to Muire," Osthryth said, after he had smiled and asked her how she was, picking her way over Tadhg and to the corner where she had been sleeping.

"He was probably drunk," Finnolai said, looking at the tangle of cloth and her meagre belongings, and then back to Osthryth.

Her mind drifted back to Constantine: he was thirteen now and she was sure he should be beyond the childish spitefulness against her at Dunnottar.

She said nothing, though, as she knelt to smooth over the greased linen, covering the green tufts of grass and soil. The dress was not torn: she held it up to the light streaming fiercely through the opening of the canvas and at its rich fibres.

Osthryth did not want to put it on. It was only a dress, but to her, the weight of it, the restrictions it put on her movement loomed heavily. It was a garment to show her off in, like a relic, to be admired and handled. Finnolai watched her, then got to his feet, misunderstanding her hesitation.

"Go, over there. The others sleep. You deserve to wear beautiful things; do not insist you go in your fighting clothes, Osthryth." He pointed to the corner, lowering his voice and leaning towards her ear.

"I, unlike other men, will not get excited by your naked body." He stepped forward, "And I can do your hair for you too, now you've washed it specially, I can see." He looked about her head. "I did the horses' tails."

Osthryth laughed at her friend's seriousness. Finnolai laughed too, gesturing with his hand to her corner. He must know that she knew about his time spent in Domhnall's company; he must have seen her that night, on the holiest of islands Iona when she chanced seeing them together.

Tadhg and Feargus ribbed him about it sometimes, but only when they were alone: such behaviour could bring a High King's disapproval, for example, and Flann Sinna was already proving to be an altogether different king to that of his cousin Aed Findlaith.

Osthryth stepped to the corner, Finnolai holding out his hands to receive her clothes as she pulled off her trousers and shirt, her leather jerkin and boots. The day was already beginning to feel lighter than the night before, the upset of Constantine's visit already fleeing from her mind. She was glad he hadn't spoken of Constantine's assault on her of the previous night.

Within half an hour, the bright sun irradiating the King's land of Teamhrach, Osthryth stepped out of the tent, a beaming Finnolai watching her walk up to the tents of the royals'.

There was something wrong with her body, Osthryth thought, as Finnolai has smoothed the cloth of the dress over her body. She was not the right shape; not as straight as she had once been: her bottom and hips were wider and her breasts were more rounded.

She didn't like it. For a start, her breeches were becoming more difficult to wear. She would have to have them altered when they got back to Doire, which would cost money. One silver coin would be more than enough, Osthryth knew, but really, she had been keeping that for a time when she had found the heathens.

Two months, Beatha had said, and one had already passed. Would the heathen woman really help her leave to go over the water back to Cumbraland or Waeleas? She had to believe the heathen woman's word.

"Yes?" asked the guard, as Osthryth approached the tent of the queen.

"I have been summoned."

"You are...?"

"Osthryth, warrior to Domhnall of Alba." The guard lowered his sword to her, then paused andvraised itvagain.

"I have been sent to the queen," she repeated, taking a step further. "Is this her tent?"

"And you are prince Domhnall's warrior!" laughed the guard.

"Lend me a sword, and I will prove it!" Osthryth demanded, as a second guard ambled over, the ungainly dress making her feel imprisoned. "Is this Queen Muire's tent?"

She folded her arms. But, instead of challenging her, the guards laughed. And held open the canvas.

It was her tent. Mairi approached the opening as Osthryth emerged, a sour look spreading over her face when she saw who was there. Osthryth ignored it as Mairi strode haughtily towards a canvas divide, pushing it open and allowing it to fall when Osthryth made to follow. She smacked it aside, following the girl to the crowd of people at the far end.

The sun's fingers pushed through the linen walls of the queen's tent and fall around the group. Osthryth felt her mouth open as Mael Muire stepped forward.

The dowager queen was a vision. Muire's black hair caught by the sun's rays glinted as if it had caught the night's stars. It cascaded down her back to her waist where it met the strong, indigo blue of her silk skirt, which flowed down to her feet.

As she turned, Osthryth's eyes were drawn to the silver and gold circlet at her brow, decorated with similar designs as the Kells gospels: unending intertwining animals with the three-circle symbol at either end.

"You will walk behind me with the boys." Muire's voice tinkled over the air as she appraised Osthryth. Then, she bent over to her ear.

"You are beautiful," Muire whispered. "Every man will have his eye on you." Osthryth forced herself to nod.

"And, this is a time young people find their husbands and wives, for security, for comfort. Many people will be hand-wed after Flann and I marry."

She did not direct me to marry, Osthryth thought, as she followed Gormlaith and Mairi as they followed Muire, arm in arm with Domhnall, who was giving her away. Up the oak path they trod, which led from the Hill of Hostages to the place where she would wed, the Stone of Destiny.

The boys walked with her, walking beautifully next to Osthryth, in exchange for some bread and milk that Osthryth had obtained for them the night before. The dress felt heavy, restrictive, and she felt very conspicuous, aware that people had their eyes on her. Sje looked for Domhnall's warriors, and saw them at the back of the King's guard, Constantine with them.

Osthryth found that she was glad to see the prince. He caught her eye, his mouth flickering up at the corners. Osthryth recognised this tiny gesture as one of Constamtine's ways of apologising without actually aologising: he would do this when he had been caught playing a cruel trick on her, like hiding Glymrie's ingredients and blaming her or locking her in the guardhouse for two nights.

He had put the night before past him, then, Osthryth thought. So should she, and when she was free from this wedding party, she could relax a little with the warriors.

She caught Finnolai's eye too, as the procession drew nearer. His was a reassuring glance, and Osthryth smiled at him, her heart lighter. Oh, to be out of this beautiful dress and be in her warrior clothes again.

The sun was directly overhead as the Abbot of Teamhrach heard their words of loyalty and union, to one another and to their kin, of the Uí Néill and Àlpin, and bonding the mid-lands to the north.

Flann Sinna had to stoop to kiss Muire, his long, flame-red hair brushing her cheek as his huge hands held her small, milk-white ones. They led the procession to the other side of the Lia Fáil, as men and women, boys and girls stood opposite one another, each in turn saying the words that she and Tadhg has spoken: "I will be your fear as wed..." "I will be your bean as wed - "

"At least, we will never have to be hand-wed." Mairi's voice tinkled through the vows like the start of spring over pebbles. "Eira, and I..." Osthryth looked up, as the black-haired girl leaned over to Gormlaith, as if pretending to whisper something of interest to her, glancing back slyly now and then to Osthryth.

"...until harvest next, be only in your thoughts, only in your heart and only a hand away..."

Osthryth said nothing. If Muire had asked directly, rather than hinting back there in her tent, she would have told the queen that she would never wed, not even as a jest with Tadhg.

"But what a thing for a servant to do," Mairi continued, as a faraway-looking Gormlaith turned to her and looked at her grinning cousin, "To be dressed as a bride then refuse tthe queen's offer. It makes you think she might be married already, or want to be."

"Or, that she is a castaway princess from a far off kingdom betrothed to a Danish prince." The words slipped hotly from Osthryth's lips. On realising what she had said, Osthryth forced her features to remain as they were: this was horrifying, and the best she could hope for was that the girl thought she was making a boastful jibe.

"Chan e muc, caílin, eu-coltach ri rìoghail!" she added, her Gaelish mangled but her message getting through: Mairi promply stopped smirking, her face sinking into feigned solemness as the hand-wed couples walked in procession behind Queen Muire and King Flann.

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The marrage ceremony continued into the afternoon, with singing of songs and feasting and ale, a speech from Flann Sinna which consisted, as far as Osthryth could tell, about the long and illustrious Uí Néill ancestors.

Now, as the seanchaí began their stories of the Gaelic royal family to their sated audience, of the journey long ago of the ancestors, of the great Fionn mac Cumhaill, and the Conan mac Morna; of Dermond, seducing Grainne as if he were the gancanagh himself.

Next, came Niall Noígíallach, the first of the Uí Néill, as they sang about the nine hostages, and the Hill of Hostages, where the story takes place, and they brought up people to represent the five from Eireann and the other four from Alba, Waeleas, Briton and France, as they recounted Niall as he fought against Eochaid, in the legend.

When each time the name Eochaid was spoken, "boos" came from the Gaels from Alba, Finnolai, Feargus and Tadhg banging their fists and drinking tankards as they showed their alliegance to Domhnall, against his cousin in Strathclyde who had made him and Constantine exiles.

Two of the queen's maids had taken Niall Glúndubh and MaelColm to bed and Osthryth had been promptly returned to the warriors' tent to dress in her proper clothes, as uncomfortable as they were around the middle.

It had bern difficult with the ties, as Finnolai had done them up well, but Osthryth had folded the dress carefully for Muire had given her clear instructions that she must care for the boys at the Senate when the High King was elected.

"What's wrong?" Finnolai asked, when she had slunk back in next to them later on.

"Nothing." Osthryth looked away, angry with herself that she had said what she had to Mairi, and now, getting tired, her annoyance was showing. She looked at Finnolai, her face downcast, and Finnolai moved closer, his concerned round face looking enquiringly at her.

She should be feeling light and free, as she had done that morning, now the summer fires burned, cinders drifting high into the heavens as the myths and legends were told.

But she could not. Had she given herself away? Had she condemned herself after everything, after over two years of hiding by a snappy retort to a spiteful girl? Now, all her mind was occupied with was how to get hold of a sword to fight her way out of this, or abscond.

"Nothing I can help, anyway," Osthryth added, as the main seanchaí got to the story of Finn tricking Benandona.

"Come on," Finnolai said, sitting closer. Osthryth folded her arms and looked away.

"Tadhg's sorry about the hand-wedding," Finnolai whispered as the seanchaí's voice rose to its climactic pitch, the audience enslaved. "He doesn't think you and he will work out the year."

Osthryth, staring as she was at the seanchaí, felt her heart lightening. She turned to Finnolai, and laughed.

It was the first time for so long, as far back as she could remember and, at first, Finnolai thought she was crying as she cradled her head into her knees, but when she threw her head back, as the audience applauded the play, he laughed too.

Several people turned their heads and stared at her, and she got up, striding towards the hedge at the back of the banqueting field.

"Come on, what is it?" Finnolau asked again, touching her shoulder. Osthryth turned to her friend, and sighed.

"I'm just - disappointed with myself; I said something out of turn -" She looked east, towards the shore, towards the land where her brother was. Where her brothers were, the thought suddenly appeared. Aelfric had married her mother and she had had a baby boy.

"I'm sure Domhnall will put it right," Finnolai soothed, putting his arm around her shoulders.

At this point, Osthryth had usually wriggled away from him, for she hated being touched and instead they would fight, but it was comforting today.

"Besides, Finnolai continued, waving his hand towards the storytellers' enthralled audience, this is a wedding! Things get said, ale gets drunk, there's plenty of merriment! It'll be the sake tomorrow night - probably worse, for it's the kings' night - all of Eireann will be celebrating."

"Except Connacht and Munster," Osthryth said, remembering.

"Well, those particular kingdoms don't properly count," Finnolai replied. "They're a bit like Pictland and Strathclyde fifty years ago, before Ceinid mac Àlpin - they need us Gaels to show them how to live, or they would remain as wretches with no leadership. Like the Saxons: the Britons everywhere were nothing without leadership."

Osthryth nodded, though didn't quite understand. Why was it any different to the invasions now, just that she was a Saxon and Finnolai and the royal house he served was Gaelish?

The Britons were like they were now with the Norse and the Danes, if the Norse and Danes were on a holy mission to get Christians to convert to their gods. All invaders murdered for land, even the first king of the Idings, leading his people onto the Northumbrian shore, flame high in his hand, as legend told.

"I'll see you later, I have a long day tomorrow," Osthryth said, as Finnolai waved back to Feargus, the dark-redheaded boy noticing their absence as the seanchaí took their leave and Flann was on his feet again.

"You are goimg to miss the beddimg ceremony?" Finnolai's eye caught Domhnall's.

"Yes..." Osthryth replied, as if it were obvious. Who on earth would want yo be around for that? Finnolai took her hajd and gave it a quick squeeze before Osthryth walked off in the direction of the shore, before rejoining the celebrations.

The dark blue sky overhead felt heavy as she trod over scrub and gorse towards the sea-line, heavy as if new stars were waiting to be pushed into existence into the canvas of the blackened heavens.

What was she to do? There was nothing that could be explained away if Domhnall - or any of them - inferred her identity.

Play dumb and make a plan of escape from wherever.

To, where?

Wessex.

Stones had given way to sand-grass and Osthryth slowed her pace.

What would her marriage there have been there? She had seen Kjartan of Dumholm, and his son, bandaged-face Sven.

She would have been nothing more than a piece if flesh for bargaining - and her uncle would have her back, if she were discovered amongst the Picts and Gaels, for a similar purpose.

Feet reaching the flat strand, Osthryth heard a voice call her name. But she didn't stop, though she knew the owner of the voice. On, and on she trod, but Constantine did eventually catch her up.

"Aren't you supposed to be at the wedding feast?" Osthryth said, trying to chide him.

"When we were last on a beach, you lost your sword, for me."

"And a man lost his finger," Osthryth replied. "Better than your..." She looked down to his groin. "And then Aed Findlaich died, and now we are here." Constantine stared at her, his chest breathing in and out rapidly. He had clearly run had to catch up with her. Now, in the moonlight, he did not look like the young man who had tried to rape her last night, more the child she remembered: vulnerable, motherless. Fatherless.

"I sat here yesterday, til the morning," Osthryth continued, setting her feet onto the sand. "Before I had to wear the dress your aunt gave me. Tha e na chladach àlainn."

Constantine, walking next to her, grabbed her hand, suddenly, in the same manner that he had used to declare, when they were at Dunnottar, she had to do a thing because he commanded her so.

Osthryth let him, closing her eyes as the part of her that wanted to flee was manoeuvred into silence. He felt such a different young man to the one of the night before, almost shy, revering, and he held her hand almost as if it were made of glass as the stars sprinkled down their tiny lightlets onto them. How could one day be so different from another?

A shiver went up Osthryth's arm as Constantine held her hand tighter, reminding her of his strength, and this time it was his companion, not the royal prince, who turned.

Osthryth pushed her lips onto his, as she put her hands to his face, waves of shivers passing down her face and neck and to every periphery of her body. Constantine returned her kisses, his own lips pushing back, hard, mirroring hers.

He slid his hands onto her shoulders and moved them down, tracing the straps of her leather jerkin, then pushing his fingers up underneath her shirt, onto her skin. They dropped to the sand, the waves roaring softly behind them.

And afterwards, they lay on the sand, warm from their bodies, and watched the sky until the pale grey line of dawn hastened them back to Tara.

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"Will it please Mebh Lethderg, Lady of Sovereignty, to take the High King of Ireland, to wed the land and to protect Christianity in this isle of Eireann?"

It was warm. Osthryth stood by two fidgety boys around the Stone of Destiny as the four kings proposing to be High King stood equidistant.

Around them, the Uì Nèill royal family made a circle: those of the northern and southern, of Flann's Midhe kingdom, their families behind each king, silent,

Other royal families were also there, in suppoert of Flann, those who owed their alliegance, the Airgialla, whose lands they had stopped in to bury Aed Findlaith, and the Uí Ceinsella, of Leinster.

As dawn broke that morning, Osthryth crept back into the warriors' tent to find her dress, happening on Finnolai, who was doing his own creeping in.

"Come on," the black-haired youth encouraged, shaking out her dress so that the embellishment twinkled and, as he carefully bound her up in it, explained the process of choosing a high king, that it was unlikely the other kings would succeed in gaining the position, given the power Flann Sinna held.

"All those princes and princesses he keeps safe at Teamhrean," Finnolai went on, "To educate and take care of, their lives at risk should any of their kin turn on Sinna."

And I am not altogether sure that Domhnall was right when he said he and Constantine were not hostages too, Osthryth thought, as she thanked Finnolai for dressing her, before hurrying up to the tents belonging to the servants of the royal family.

She should have been sleeping there that night, Osthryth thought, with the other servants, being obedient, not nestled in sheltered rocks holding Constantine's hand. And there would be little time to rest today, as she cared for Grubbyknees and his little cousin.

"You're awake," Raonaid, one of Muire's servants said, when she saw Osthryth standing in the tents, having slipped in with another two girls. And she gave Osthryth some bread before directing her to the boys, who were lively and energetic as she took them in procession with all at Teamhrean

to St ColmCille's church for a service of prayer for the new high king, whoever he may be.

Now, once the abbot at Kells had finished his service at Lia Fáil, the huge Destiny Stone where they were now, the council of nobles from all of the royal families would to go off to the meeting hall next to the church and deliberate.

Osthryth understood what Finnolai had meant now: here the most powerful man in the whole of Eireann was going to begin his High Kingship, as defender of God the Almighty and by marrying the land, as in pre-Christian times, the Eireann pagan gods and traditions undistillable in this land.

And, while Domhnall's favourite warrior was cynical and he ribbed Tadhg about it when he was bored, it somehow seemed appropriate: they weren't separate like the pagan gods, either the British, or Pictish, nor Gaelish, or Strathclyde, whose old gods had died quickly under Christianity.

Gytha, her mother, had been of Rheged, and had been taken to marry her father to secure the lands in Cumbraland. But, even now the Danes had taken it, and installed their own king, according to the monks' letters back at Doire. Perhaps that land wad the most similar to Eireann in its retention of the old gods in Christianity anew.

Aelfric had married Osthryth's mother to secure the same lands, and to continue to secure it, he would probably wish to marry a woman of King Guthfrith's kin, perhaps a sister.

In Englaland, Strathclyde and Pictland too, the old gods were nothing but shadow, yet here in Eireann, they were living, as real as the sun and earth and water, and speaking of them appeared to be the king and the priests merely communing with the land over which they ruled.

The High King would indeed marry the land, for the land and the people's Christian faith were one. And, Osthryth thought, he would do as Finnolai suggested: use that one-ness of being of Eireann to mobilise themselves against the Norse, and that included the ritual of kingship, done correctly so all could see that he who would be chosen was chosen correctly.

The service was coming to a conclusion. All four kings offering themselves over the others stood next to the stone and placed their hands upon it.

Osthryth looked round. Would Donnchada oppose his father, as Tadhg suggested? She looked over at the tall, chestnut-haired prince, son of Flann. He remained stolidly behind his father and made no gesture to place his hands on the stone and declare his intention to be King of all Eireann.

But someone did. Through the people strode a man. Black of hair and eye and face as pale milk. He loped around the kings' retainers, long limbed and determined, striding up to the Stone of Destiny.

All watched as he placed his hands on the stone, as the other four kings had done.

"I am come," said the king, as Rí Ulad, King of the Ulstermen, to claim High Kingship."

He spoke as the other kings had spoken, Flann Sinna of King of Tara, and the southern uí Neill; Muiredach of Airgíalla, who garnered support from Doire when the Ulaid battled for their lands; Ruairc Úi Briúin of Bréifne, another king with alliegance to the Úi Néill for support against Munster and Domnall Úi Néill, son of Aed.

Domnall was representing the northern Úi Néill lands despite his step-mother, Muire, marrying Flann Sinna the day before and who, Finnolai confidently predicted, would fold to his new stepfather: "They had to put someone forward in name only. Domnall does not have the power to be overlord."

But now the king of their bitterest enemy spoke. As he did so, Osthryth thought she recognised the man's features. How did she know him? Why did he look familiar?

"Cineál mac Conchobar," the wizened abbot announced, "Rí Ulad, you come to claim High Kingship. You must now justify your claim."

The breeze blustered his braid at the back of his head. The Ulaid king stood firm, looking at each of the other kings, and prince Domnall, as if daring them to dispute his claim. And one did.

"I am rí in Chóicid," Flann Sinna declared, his orange-red hair flying in tbe breeze too, their braids looking like snakes dancing a challemge to one another.

The crowd started. It was true: one of the monks at Doire, who had sat close to Osthryth one night on finding her reading the annals - histories - of the Eireann church, and less close on finding she was not a boy, had told her the Chóicid were what the first peoples of Eireann were called, right back into history, before the Gaels had sailed from southern lands. For Flann to claim so meant he claimed descent from the first peoples of Eireann.

But, clearly, Cineál would not let that be the end. He stood firm and continued his claim. He looked about those who flanked Flann, and a sneer crossed his face.

"I am called the fifth, but we are the first, we are the king of the people of early Eireann. I am the fír Ulaid, the true Ulaid; we have remained in this land, honoured its traditions, welcomed Christianity to these lands." He loomed at the kings again, waiting for them to disagree.

"Emain Macha was stolen from us - " at this, he glared at King Muiredach, whose people were now the former capital's occupants, " - by the Uí Néills," the dark man looked now across to the flaming head of Flann Sinna. "A fact which is readily known. "

And then, he looked at across at Muire, whose white skin only appeared more beautiful, enhanced as it was by another blue dress.

"Álpin are my kin - Ceinid mac Álpin and are of my line, of Gabrán mac Domangair." He the looked across to Domhnall and Constantine.

Osthryth glanced in Constantine's direction. She had been looking for the prince of house Àlpin for most of the morning. He at least had got back to the camp, for he had not been by her side that morning.

"I see that you have my kin with you, Flann Sinna."

"And I am Cruithin," King Flann declared. "These are my kin here, to give evidence of it." Donnchada was now by his side. "His mother was your kin, was he not? And, when Niall mac Aed has done with the throne, then shall Donnchada, of the Uí Néill and the Ulaid, be king of all of these provinces? Who better to represent all your interests?"

The king had a point. A man, embodied in Donnchada the Brown-Haired mac Flann representing all lines of Eireann kings would unite all interests, especially if all interests meant uniting against the Norse. But. Flann was not yet finished. The huge, red-haired man continued to stand his ground.

"It pleases the line of Uí Néill to represent my rule in the Doire kingdom with my cousin's son, Prince Domnall," Flann continued. Osthryth watched as her once-opponent stood still as his uncle - now stepfather -spoke.

"The line of Álpin are too of Cruithin: the Picts and Strathclyde Cymric," Flann continued, loudly so that all those assembled in the lower ground could hear, "Who travelled over the northern seas to the kingdom now known as Alba. My wife,"he looked at Muire, "Is ingen Ceinid, mac Àlpin; her mother was of Fortriu, and our children will be of Cruithín."

This must surely be it, Osthryth thought, as little Niall and littler MaelColm fought in her hands. These boys needed a drink, at least, against the hot sun. But, she did not have her clothes on; she could not conceal water for them in a form-fitting dress, not yet give it to them surrepticiously.

Her heart sank as another, a third voice spoke. Behind Ruairc, a man of his kin stepped forward.

"We, of the Airgíalla, are also first peoples," the man said.

"Tighearnán!" Muiredach snapped, but the man continued regardless.

"We were once slaves to the Ulaid, but broke free of their overlordship." He looked at the faces of the nobility before him. What could he say to justify his claim? He could not compete on lineage.

"It was us who first embraced. Saint Patrick," Tighearnán Uí Briúin continued. "See, he is buried at Ard Mhacha. No texts produced in our land can be released unless they are assessed by scribes of his teaching." He looked at Muiredach.

"We are of Saint Patrick! My brother's claim is strongest, not because of lineage, but because of faith!"

It sounded weak, even to Osthryth's poorly-knowledgeable ear. But, like the Angle and Saxon families, the lives of the Irish kings was like one weaving frame disaster, all the family threads had got tangled together over the centuries. Only skilled, learned people could possibly unpick it all and name a High King who was credible to all.

"And I say to you, Flann Sinna," Osthryth darted her eyes back to Tighearnán Uí Briúin, who was still pressing his brother's case, "That if you claim you are Cruithin through Àlpin, and you are also of Dal Riata, who were themselves, Ulaid, then the Rí Ulad supercedes you."

Everyone watched as Flann Sinna stared at the King of Airgíalla. Did Sinna have some of Muiredach's kin, wondered Osthryth, and this was why he looked so fiercely at him? Tighearnán was either brave to support his brother or stupid. Or had been paid in gold by King Cineál to do so.

The debating continued between the kings as the sun rose overhead until at last, the abbot led the kings Saint ColmCille's church, Flann Sinna taking the lead, followed by the the nobles, including Domhnall and Constantine who, Osthryth supposed, counted in the big tangle of kin, as they were Uí Àlpin.

Muire took the boys when the men had departed. Niall hugged his mother very tightly as she carried him down past the other royal families, telling him how good he had been and that he would have some food and drink now. Little MaelColm was at her side and jumped when he heard the word "biadh".

"Who was that?" Osthryth asked, now relieved of her duty of looking after the boys until the reconvention of the council. She sought the warriors on this bright day and found them on a grassy bank on the other side of the Ráth na Ríogh.

Sitting on the grass next to Feargus, as the young man tucked into meat which was being passed around, she smiled at them. But none were smiling back.

"King Cineál?" Osthryth prompted. Of the Ulaid? I didn't understand all he said..."

"Did you know his sons were with him?" Finnolai finally spoke up.

"Oh?"

"The ones you met in the beach at Lough Foyle?" Finnolai looked at her pertinently, mid-bite. "You were attracting some stares up there, so yer were, Osthryth, in yer pretty dress and all, but I don't think you want them rememberin' you took one of their fingers."

"Why do the Ulaid hate the Uí Néills so much?" Osthryth asked, taking a flask of ale and a joint of meat. She kbew the answer: Cobstabtine had told her. But she wanted to change the subject.

"It's a bit like you and tbe finger, really," Tadhg began. "The Ulaid king was diminished because the Uí Néill king's bees stung him in tbecetes ajd made him go blind. Cáech, they called him - "limited sight". You see, to be King of the Ulaid, over all three tribes, you yiu need to be whole of body." Tadhg tore into his meat with his teeth. "Now do you see why were concerned about yer, Osthryth? Yer one of us."

One of them, Osthryth mused. Yet, she could barely bask in their declaration of her as their equal: the two Ulaid princes had been young but revenge-driven. Their king from years ago lost an eye; the one who stole Faedersword lost a finger.

And then, she realised that she recognised him - his looks favoured theirs? Osthryth lowered her meat, feeling her face become chilly despite the day's warmth. What if King Cineál became high king and found out what she had done?

"What do we do now?" she managed, changing the subject again.

"Wait," Finnolai replied, finishing his meat and throwing the bones into the headge.

"For how long?" asked Feargus, concerned. "I thought there was to be another another feast?"

"Could be days," Tadhg replied, lazily, stretching out against the bank of the King's Enclosure.

"Has it been days?" Osthryth asked, supping some ale.

"It has," said Tadhg, blinking into tbe sunlight, "Before Aed Findlaich. The decision over his father, Flann's grandfather took nigh on a week..."

"A week?" Groaned Feargus, his dark red hair catching the light and turning to Tadhg.

"...But I cannot see it being more than the rest of the day: apart from Cineál he has little competition - he is too powerful."

As the day wore on, Domhnall's warriors ate and drank and told stories as everyone waited for the judgment. Once or twice warriors from other houses came over to greet them; Tadhg knew many; Feargus a few.

On one occasion spoke to Osthryth herself, who made it clear she did not want his company, sending the young man scurrying away, crestfallen.

It was the evening when the lords assembled back around the Stone of Destiny. All possiblities had been discussed and a decision had been made.

Osthryth searched the faces, looking for Domhnall and Constantine amongst the two-score nobles who had deliberated and decided.

"All has been considered," the abbot of Kells proclaimed. The lords have spoken. This king was out hunting with his brothers when they met a frail old woman who insisted that they should kiss her before she could give them water. While everyone else gave her a peck on the cheek, this king kissed her."

It couldn't be Domnall then, Osthryth reasoned, her eyes fixing on the door to the church. Though his father, Ard, had been the last king, Domnall'd more likely kill a woman not kiss one. Plus, his brother was little Niall, horse-wise in the future, perhaps, but not now.

"This woman who then transformed into a beautiful young lady, green of form and glowing with sunlight."

And here was the representation of the land, Osthryth thought, by a Christian priest. It slwould be odd in England, or even Alba. But here, you could just about manage

From tbe church priests led out Flann Sinna. Behind him, the three other kings and Domnall mac Aed Findlaith.

But...Osthryth peered behind Domnall in the dusk-light. Domnall had looked across to someone, and that someone was Donnchada Donnfalt, Flann's son

Was this a plan by the prince, as Finnolai predicted? For he was coming back with the rest of the proponents.

Was he supporting Domnall, for Osthryth was sure it was the prince's voice she had heard in the garden at Ard Mhacha? Was he supporting someone other than his father? Was he proposing himself?

"And it has been decided that Flann Sinna, shall wed the land, and elevated to High King of All Ireland!"

The abbot took Flann's hand while the other kings encircled him. Flann knekt on all fours, a difficult thing for he was so big, and placed his hands on the red sandstone block which formed the foundation of high, pointed stone that was Lia Fáil.

All of the lords knelt to him, touching the rock, a little crumbling into their hands.

"As if all Ireland included the kingdoms of Connacht and Munster!" Finnolai's words sprang to Osthryth's ear-memory. She tried hard to stifle a laugh.

When Flann was back on his feet, High Kingship his, he walked around the other kings who had bid, offering his hand to kiss his loyalty. When it came to King Cineál, however, Rí Ulad got to his feet, stalking away.

Osthryth felt a wave of relief come over her. With the king if the Ulaid gone, with him, if they were there at all, would go his sons.

Which was a pity, Osthryth thought, as she hoped she might be able to reclaim "Faedersword".

Now, Flann Sinna was back to the central block of stone. He made a speech about uniting the Irish against the Norse, who wanted their lands and didn't care whether a person was Bréifne, nor Airgialla; Uí Néill or Ulaid: all the Norse cared for were land and silver.

"I hereby honour Domnhall mac Constantine, of the line Alpin," Flann went on, his voice booming over the Banqueting Hall, "Our ally, our comrade, who forges new territory in Alba for the Gaels." He took Domhnall by the shoulder and drew him to the centre of the stone, showing him bodily to the nobles, to the retainers, to the servants and slaves of each of the kingdoms.

"We are of one kin; our terrotory expands and we have contained the Norse, who ravage our shores."

Osthryth glanced at Muire. She seemed very pleased, and was hugging Niall and MaelColm to her legs.

"His crown and his land has been stolen! But, there is resistance in the Isles. To show our love of our kin, this stone will be cleaved, and it will be used to crown him when the battle in Alba has been won!"

Behind him, a mighty axe fell. The man holding it wasvas big as the king, and he struck the red sandstone block with such a force that it cleaved into two.

"This stone, born of the Lia Fáil, will be taken and cared for at Iona, so that one day, Domnhall and his descendants will mirror our High Kingship in Alba."

Domhnall knelt by the rock, which had been cut for him, and Flann knelt by him, mimicking his own ceremony.

"And now," Flann declared, his arms wide, his smile also, "We are to feast; we are to play, we are to sing and make merry. Your High King says it will be so!"

From the near-silent crowd of people around the king, an eruption of cheers and shouts of approval overwhelmed the Hill of Teamhrach, as servants began to be ordered about; royalty congregated, families mingled.

The feast, which had been prepared at the time the deliberation over who to elect as High King, was set out on long tables around the king's hill: no person was higher or lower than one another tonight, and the food was eaten and shared under a blue blanket of pinpricks of stars.

After eating with the warriors, Osthryth reported back to Muire who, while diamissing her to go to enjoy herself, told her she must not change from her dress into her own clothes, as she had done the previous night.

This brought on a smirk from Mairi, who was nudged by Gormlaith, and which earned her a scowl from Muire.

Games and singing were being held, and the warriors, with Osthryth, ambled about, looking at the entertainments, the storytelling, the jestibg, the games of Fidchell began to be unfolded and younger nobles pitted their gaming skill against their elders.

"You may know it as Alea Evangelii," Finnolai said, as he nodded in the direction of the cheqyered game board on which a central collection of white stones batyled a more disparate wrmy of red ones.

Osthryth shook her head, and was surprised when it was Feargus who explainef that the peson playing centre had to take his swirly counters to the corners, and red had to stop him.

"Lugh invented it," Tadhg put in. "It is taken seriously; to helps battlefield decisions."

Osthryth left Finnolai and Tadhg gently ribbing one another. There was no heat to it: the length of the day standing still and silent had made them feel lazy and languid. Feargus was making his way through another ale, as the warriors sat to listen to the singers tell tales of the heroes past, Fionn mac Cumhaill making Lough Neaah and Mann; Oisin and Niamh; Cú Chulainn and Dagda.

She left them to look at the other entertainments: jugglers and jesters and people who had set up during the afternoon, selling trinkets and beads, wooden objects and those made of iron and bronze, imported, Osthryth knew, from Englaland, Cornwalum, as the smelks of cooking and wood fires permeated the air.

And medicines. The woman, near tge back of the crowd, with two chikdren suddenly caught her eye as a man retreated from her, pocketing something he gad presumably bought.

The woman noticed Osthryth, who was striding over to her determinedly, amd began to pull together herbs and roots she had discreetly pulled together onnan upturned basket.

It was Beatha. Osthryth rushed after the retreating woman, whose children were running on in front.

Could it be true? Was she here? Had the heathen woman travelked to Tara and was she travelling over the water?

She gained on the woman over the dunes, gaining on Beatha, her dress pushing at her chest, making her pant. Lower and lower, she ran as the woman made her way down to the shoreline, sand shooting up behind her as she went, throwing up onto her drrss and into her hair.

Six feet away from the heathen wonan and Osthryth saw that it was not Beatha, the woman who told her to meet in two moons' time to travel. Panting, Osthryth pulled to a halt as the woman, having dropped her basket, pulled out a short blade and held it in front of her, as her her two young children shivered vehind her.

Osthryth stopped. She could easily have overpowered the woman, but she needn't. She wasn't pursuing her to hand her over, nor to rob her. She took a step back and the woman lowered her blade.

"I thought you were someone else, another...healer," Osthryth said and, seeing the woman's spilt produce, knelt to collect it up off the dry sand. The woman strode over to Osthryth, grabbing up her goods, then offering the basket to her with a shove, scowling her displeasure.

"You are not Beatha," Osthryth repeated, then turned to go, hopes if leaving even that night to get on a boat and travelling east.

"Why are you looking for Beatha?" the woman asked.

"For moss," Osthryth began. "And transport. She told me to meet her to negotiate passage."

"To where?" the woman asked, her boy and girl closing in on each side of her.

"Englaland, or Cornwalum, or Waeleas."

The woman turned to go, now, and Osthryth felt the weight of her hidden sorrow, that of hope dashed, in her stomach, in her heart.

"What would you trade?" The woman asked suddenly.

"I am a warrior," Osthryth told her. "My arm and my sword."

"You?!" the woman scoffed, looking at her up and down. "You are no warrior! Why," you haven't even got a sword!" she laughed. "And, how can you fight in a dress? No," she corrected Osthryth, as if Osthryth had lied, putting her hands onto her hips. "I saw you with the two young princes. You are no warrior, just a silly, bored servant who is in trouble and wants to escape."

Then, the heathen healer turned, her laughter tinkling over the sand and out to sea.

And Osthryth stood there, watching her go, anger and humiliation vying for her attention.

She was a warrior - she could fight better than most boys her age; she had defeated grown men. And yet, she had allowed herself to be sidelined into service. She had no plan and no sword. She had become part of Constantine and Domhnall's retinue.

Osthryth looked out to the receding sea. She needed to get away from here, from the princes, no matter how well Domhnall treated her, or how happy she was with in the company of the other warriors.

She turned and began to stride back towards Tara, fury with herself at her own stupidity, angry steps thrustng her frustration out on the sand and rock as she went.

Why hadn't she made a better plan? Why hadn't she remained at Dunnottar? She would have been on the same isle as Wessex, and would just need to find passage south, or walk. Here, she had to cross the sea.

Heading towards her tent she could begin by taking off the stupid dress. Never again would she wear one: she could fight her way to Wessex, sword or no.

The festival was still under way. As she climbed up to the fields, laughter and enjoyment was coming from every area as people ate and drank, as they sang and danced.

The tent was just ahead of her, but Osthryth's attention was caught the clashing of swords. A fight? Had people become so inebriated?

She crouched down beside a cart, on which several barrels of beer still lay and watched and listened. The fighting was intensive - few pauses between the sword strikes. Had rival royals, or servants, got into an argument?

Over the ground she crawled, listening, and stood up when she heard the "ooing" and "aahing" of the crowd. Were they envouraging the fight?

Yes, in their way, Osthryth saw, for it was not a battle in anger, but some sort of competition. She could just work out what the host was saying, and she crept further forward, arriving at the back of the hot, animated crowd.

"And so, Brin of Midhe keeps the ring, while his opponent, Gerard of Airgealla retires." A man pushed through the crowd, as annoyed as Osthryth felt, pushing past people roughly. She shuffled further forward. What was going on?

"And, now, who will be the next man to fight Brin and hold the circle?"

Osthryth strained forward. At the other side of the circle, she was certain that she could see Tadhg and Feargus, but neither of them moved. The end of the fight sounded decisive, so whoever fought Brin, a large, dark-haired man holding his sword aloft, would have to be very nimble and very strong.

"Remember, the last person to hold the cicle will win this lovely, Frankish-sword." The old man who was hosting the conpetition held it aloft, withdrawing halfway so the swirls and patterns could be seen.

It was not Faedersword, but it would do. As her sword. As if in a dream, Osthryth shouldered past the men and strode over to the host, who bent his silver head down to her.

Could she do it? She had seen little of Brin's technique or any of his opponents. But anger at the heathen woman laughing at her and feeling ashamed of using the Gaels drove her forward

.

"Who do you represent?" The man asked lazily, looking past her for the man she represented.

"Osthryth."

"Osrit..." He peered down at her and growled, "Osrit what?" Osthryth thought for a moment.

"Lackland."

"Then," announced the man, "May your master Osrit step forward." He was still looking past her. There was a shuffling in the crowd as they waited for the next fight.

"I am to fight." She reached out for the sword with which to batle Brin. When he looked down at her, doubtfully, she insisted, "I am a warrior!" The old man ogled her breasts.

"You look like a servant girl who deserves a good ploughing." But Osthryth was too furious to accept insults. She leaned across the table and put her hands on the sword-hilt. The man slammed down the scabbard with the palm of his hand.

"And, you look like an old man who deserves his guts torn out for the crows!" Her anger poured our of her - Osthryth was ready for a fight, ready to prove to herself that she was no servant. It had been over a year since she had truly fought in a battle.

And now, as the man raised his hand from it, holding it out for the silver piece fee, she now faced a brute of a man who would kill her over a sword.

But she didn't care. She needed that sword; she needed passage. Her one remaining piece would have to suffice.

Brin stood a little away from the table tapping his foot impatiently. When he saw an adolescent girl in a tight-fitting dress stride towards him he burst into fits of laughter, digging the other challenging sword into the earth to lean on.

It was a mistake. Already, Osthryth was lunging at him with the light sword, its flexibility almost making it qualify as a sword, if the purpose of such a weapon was to cut and slice.

This first attack caught Brin off guard and he struggled to get the sword from the earth to party her blows. He ducked to one side, skilled feet keeping him anchored as he pivoted around.

Tightening his grip on his sword, Brin approached Osthryth, who shuffled, shifting to keep Brin in front of her as scufffles at the back of the crowd broke out, inaudible to Osthryth as she focused with her anger on the man.

He held himself with an air of arrogance, grinning wickedly at Osthryth, assured in the superiority of his sex. He reached far out to her, trying to slice down at her, but Osthryth slinked back.

He just wants to show off, Osthryth thought to herself. He thinks this will be easy because I am a girl. He does not know that less than two years ago I fought a Norse army in Scotland.

Yet her body felt strange, almost as if it was not her own as she dodged the next three attacks, all of them designed to try to scare her, none with any power or skill, and it took her concentration to move as she wanted to, to use his energy, to attack when his muscles began to labour.

She continued to drift around the man, maintaining the same distance and letting the tip of the sword within inches of her body. That was good, she told herself, as one swipe came a little too close, the crowd gasping in lurid fascination. He will get more confident, more lazy.

The setting sun cast long shadows onto the grass, and Osthryth focused on her feet, making sure she could dodge more accurately as the blade of her opponent skimmed her forearn, drawing a red line on the sleeve of her dress.

Then, unexpectedly, Brin sprang towards her lashing out with his flimsy blade towards Osthryth's neck. It was a cunning strike and as the blade darted towards her, Osthryth dived to the floor, one of the first moves taught to her by Ceinid.

The crowd, now swelling in number as news of a girl fighting a man spread around Tara's fields and two voices, from different sides of the makeshift arena called her name

Osthryth heard neither as the dive aimed at the man's feet. Brin of Midhe was too heavy to tackle to the ground but Osthryth squeezed tightly around the man's wide calves and drove her modest weight behind it. It was enough.

Unsteadied, the man stumbled, and Osthryth slammed the pommel of the sword against the man's bicep of his fighting arm, blocking a weak lunge as she did so that was aimed for hee stomach. Instead, it glanced off her hip.

Pain irradiated around this new blow but Osthryth ignored it, pulling herself up and blocking a passing blow from Brin's sword before it could even be fully extended.

"Steady," called out the owner of the competition, "His master does not want him killed, nor yours."

"I have no master!" Osthryth growled, but her words were lost in the cheering. She raised her arm to her face, wiping away the blood.

She was a warrior; this man would be defeated.

Osthryth then took full advantage of the man's insecure footing, for his blow had made him fall back unsteadily. She aimed hard at the base of his rib cage, not hard enough to pierce his leather jerkin but enough to wind him.

"Do you yield?" Osthryth shouted, stuttering the words as a trickle of blood from the man's trailing arm caught her at the side of the head. She had bitten her own lip and was lucky not have bitten into her own tongue.

Brin staggering around her, gasping for breath, and could not answer. Not in words. He must have wanted the sword badly to not yield, to not look so ungainly in his attack against a woman, not caring for his reputation.

So, it was a battle of wills: who wanted that sword more?

Osthryth had the upper hand, and she was to choose the next move. She chose badly.

Striking out, Osthryth's opponent moved his left hand, grabbing her own blooded forearm. The pain was enough for Osthryth to do her own ungainly dance and, as she did so, Brin's right came up, his blade slashing towards Osthryth's neck.

She leaned back, avoiding most of the stroke. But not all of it. The blade ripped across her clavicle, gouging flesh from her body.

Blood soaked into the fabric of the beautiful dress Muire had given to her, and part of Osthryth's mind was given over to regret that it was now ruined.

She faltered, as Brin got the advantage. He slammed his fist into her stomach, but Osthryth managed to reel back, avoiding most of the power. Her shoulder was throbbing insistently, and she fought herself to her feet.

Behind her, the man holding the contest, moved from lazy spectator to actively shouting at them both to stop, horrified at the extent of the battle that suggested that neither opponentvwas going to give ground amd may actually end up in the death of one of them.

He was even more vociferous when he saw nobles striding out towards him.

But neither opponent cared to stop, if they had heard him. Stabbing, forward with her right arm Osthryth drove her sword into the man's left armpit, putting as much strength as she could into the attack.

The man bellowed, and struck out with his own sword, but it was inaccurate and his arm flailed around.

About them, the crowd drew their circle closer, most cheering but some shouting their disapproval.

If Osthryth had looked up then, she would have seen two Uí Néill, standing just behind the competition instigator. But she didn't and instead raised her sword, amateurishly, the pommel in to hands, exposing her chest, ready to strike down.

The man was in too much pain to take advantage of Osthryth's mistake, but tangled his leg around her ankles.

Osthrth stumbled, dropping her sword, but the man was in agony from hs wound and again could not capitalise on her disadvantage.

"Do...you...yield...?" Osthryth's words were ragged, but she shouted them at Brin of Midhe's face.

The Uí Néill prince bent to the stall-man's ear, look of horror on his face and ran waving at the two warriors, waving his arms and shoutine for them to stop.

"He does!" The terrified man shouted back. "He does yield!"

But the man did not. Again, he kicked out, and Osthryth stumbled, the man's hand chancing on her dropped sword. A smile of triumph crossed his face as Osthryth fell on top of him, grabbing a fistful of his jerkin at his waist.

She tried to steady herself, but her left hand, the one damaged nearly three years before by the arrow sent on her uncle's orders as she fled Bebbanburg, refused to press against the man's torso. She fumbled.

Fire coursed over her back. The man had managed to twist Osthryth's sword around and slice it into Osthryth's back, tearing at the dress and scraping deeply.

Osthryth curled backwards, off the man as the he lay back, victory written over his features. He would not yield. He was the champion.

Or so he thought. Making the gargling, wild battle-cry of the Picts, a noise which had terrified even the savage Norse on the field that day so long ago, Osthryth sent her left fist into her opponent's groin, grabbing at what was there and twisting with all her might.

The man dropped her sword and Osthryth rolled away, staggering to her feet, then swinging the sword aloft. He was easy prey now, and she aimed the sword towards the man's agony.

But her blade met with another. Not the poor excuse of her opponent's sword, bit one with some real weight behind its steel. She looked into a face she knew, one who had once been her opponent.

Domnall mac Aed watched Osthryth drop her combat sword, and held her arm aloft.

"The victor!" He declared, as pulses of blood irradiated across Osthryth's shoulder and back. "Now, by decree of the High King, the competition is over

In the twilight, applause circulated around from the spectators, but there were also some discontent that it was over and the royal prince had not opened up the challenge to anyone else against her.

Instead, Domnall led her off by the arm, walking quickly past the crowd and out around the canvased, up towards the food tents. Around them, supperly kinds of smells of venison, rabbit and pork wafted on the evening air.

Domnall then stopped, suddenly, and threw her in front of him.

"The champion of a sword contest," he summarised, and released Osthryth's arm, thrusting her in front of him.

With her good arm, Osthryth reached for sword, but he pulled it out of her reach, a triumphant smirk on his face.

"I won!" panted Osthryth, protestingly" as she tried again.

"Come and get it," Domnall tormented, as guards began to surround him on all sides. Her features began to look fierce, but the fight was ebbing from her, her wounds demanding her body's attention.

Osthryth sighed, then turned to go. He obviously wanted to keep it from her, to keep it himself, perhaps.

"Guards!" Domnall raised his arm, addressing those who had surrounded them. Terrified, Osthryth struggled as the four men closed in on her.

"You fought my guardsman," Domnall growled, his eyes filling with anger as the guards' stale breath met her skin. Osthryth's words of protest stuck in her throat. Then, suddenly, Domnall lowered his arm and uttered, "Now!" At once, the four guards each siezed her by her limbs.

"Brin is my warrior; you dishonour him, like dishonoured Constantine!"

They dragged her to the back of the stores tent, one guard holding down each limb pressing each limb onto the rain-parched earth. She struggled, but there were too many of them.

"So, you like to fight?" he mocked, as Osthryth refused to submit, and he bent to the tear at the shoulder of the dress which his warrior's blow had begun. Clammy hands reached out for her breasts, which closed around them, in turn. It is just a body, Osthryth told herself. Do not submit your soul to him, do not submit to weak fear.

"It takes five of you to restrain me, Domnall mac Aed Uí Néill," she spat back, in defiance. His eyes narrowed, and he nodded at the guards who held her more firmly to the grass, small pebbles of sandstone pebble pressing into her back.

"You shamed my cousin, fighting in his place," Domnall continued, bending over her, then kneeling, put his hand between the tears in her dress skirt. "So, we have come to an understanding."

He pressed his fingers over the bumps between her legs, then pressed inwards, to a place only Constantine knew. When he is not humping you, you can hump me - or whoever I choose, and I will watch." Then, he groped himself, pulling his hand up and down his own cock.

"You are a whore to Constantine," he continued, getting more vigorous. It's just up and down, Osthryth reminded herself, nothing more.

But then a little thought suppressed that thought, and reminded her, "That's not how you felt when Constantine ploughed you on the beach last night."

"And now, you will be a whore to me," Domnall continued, getting breathless, while he worked himself hard, as she had chanced Tadhg do one night in the stables not long after they had arrived at Doire.

But I am no whore, Osthryth's mind protested. I do not do this for a few shillings - we are connected, Constantine and I, that is more than humping, and I have sworn I will never, she wanted to scream, and it will not happen again.

Domnall loomed over her in triumph, breeches around his ankles, the force in his cock straining against his hand. But, he was too slow. Osthryth had felt the guards waver in their commitment to comply in the prince's impending violation of her body. It was enough.

Kicking one leg free, she aimed her foot towards his scrotum. It was a bad shot for, as she extended her leg, the muscles in her back contracted and she caught his leg instead.

Domnall staggered away, fury on his face as the guards pressed her down even harder. But a voice, calm as a summer sea, settled over them all. Osthryth recognised the voice. She had fled from it as he spoke about a girl, at the monastery in Ard Mhacha.

She strained upwards, and her supposition was confirmed as her eye caught that of King Flann's eldest son.

"This is not the way a prince behaves," Donnchada chided. Osthryth felt her limbs lighten as the he added, "You, go." He stood away from her, as Domnall decorated the stores tent with his fluid.

"Who are you?" Donnchada asked, standing away from her and allowing Osthryth to get to her feet.

"I am.. no-one," Osthryth breathed as she regained her footing.

"This is Osthryth, servant of my cousin - our cousin Domhnall," Domnall sneered. Osthryth pulled her dress over her breasts, and tried to stand as tall as her injuries would allow.

"You don't treat servants like this, Domnall," Prince Donnchada chided.

"I am a warrior!"

"So you say," Domnall spat at her, "yet you betrayed Constantine by fighting in his stead, his whore!"

A frown crossed the southern Uí Néill prince's face and he took her right arm and wrenched her towards him. Osthryth just managed to kerp her footing.

"Why, a cailín?" He looked down at the outline of her breasts under the ruined cloth. She fought to cover them with her hands.

"Of course a girl! Am I Domnhall?" He looked furiously at Donnchada, and then mockingly back at Osthryth. "An Anglian Northumbrian skivvy of Constantine when he was a boy, and is now his whore. Who won this from my servant in the Sword Battle." He showed his step-brother the Frankish sword.

This time Osthryth did not miss. Domnall got the full force of her foot in the sack. He reeled, grabbing at the tent cloth that he had just decorated with his semen, writhing in pain. Donnchada turned to Osthryth and looked at her in disbelief.

"But you could only be - "

"I'm fourteen - nearly," Osthryth declared. "Constantine requested I accompany him in his exile." She looked at the sword she had won. "And yes, that's mine, I won it."

But Donnchada's face clouded, and he thrust his hand forward, grabbing her plait, twisting around his hand, her scalp in agony. He drew Osthryth's face to his own.

"You may think we Irish are fools, but we are not fooled by a girl," his words soft, steady. Donnchada nodded his head towards Domnall.

"You attached a noble - that is no way for a servant to behave."

"I am no servant!" Osthryth managed, her teeth gritted. "I am a warrior!" But Donnchada only hmph'd as he began to drag her past the stores tent, Domnall leering derisively at her, wincing as he followed behind Donnchada.

Beyond the canvas, fires burned, one heating a stew hung over it by thick chains, a woman tending the broth. She started when she saw Donnchada pulling Osthryth by her hair, and retreated when he pulled her close to the fire.

The flames danced before her eyes, her face growing dry and hot. By her side, Donnchada slid his sword from its scabbard. Osthryth saw it flash in the firelight as he raised it.

She braced herself for pain, by fire, by blade, but then felt her body releasing as the High King's first-born son slicrd through her braid, casting it into the fire before her eyes.

He let her go. Without looking back to see her hair alight, Osthryth scrambled to her feet, making for the warriors' camp on the other side of the ridge.

Get dressed, Osthryth told herself as she ran past Muire's household guard, take your silver and go. You owe no-one here your alliegance, no-one your loyalty, obedience.

Rounding the top of the ridge, and by a spinney of trees, fatigue came to her body and Osthryth slumped down onto the ground. She had fought, and won, and for being a girl she had had her prize confiscated and, worse, her hair shorn close. If she were home, would she look like her father...? Or Uhtred?

Osthryth closed her eyes. She might have not agreed to come with Constantine, find another way to be by her brother's side. Her hair was mutilated now; she was no longer a warrior. Was she really supposed to be a sister now, confined to baby-naking as part of a trade agreement?

Sighing at the thought of such a wretched fate, Osthryth got to her feet, pounding them towards the warriors' tent, furious with herself.

But the heat of her anger quelled when she saw Finnolai, standing, arms folded and looking out from tbe canvas entrance, a brave of rabbit roasting over a small fire.

His placid face filled with horror when he saw her, cut, bruised, torn.

"Who did this?!" he demanded, hand on his sword as he looked past Osthryth, looking for her assailant. But she looked past him and into the corner of the tent to her clothes.

He took her arm, and Osthryth looked up to him, her friend and warrior practise opponent, who now put his hand to over her face, looking at her wounds, then her shouder, before hovering his hand over her back.

Then, Finnolai put his hand to her head, to her short stumps of pale golden hair. When she didn't answer, he prompted, "Constantine?"

"Domnall," she said bluntly. "Donnchada," Then added, as she recalled her fight, "Myself"

Finnolai pressed no more, but instead helped her down onto his own fur, taking out the coineanaich from the pot, and began to bathe her and treat her wounds, starting with her back, listening as she let out pieces of the evening, her fight, her attack, anger growing, anger at herself.

Finnolai was helping her into her clothes as the canvas flap was pushed aside.

"Tadhg and Feargus told me they saw you battle," Domhnall declared. Finnolai backed away from Osthryth as their Lord strode in. She put her arm across her chest but Domhnall did not look away, instead he appraised her back, shoulder and arms so she continued to dress. Then, his eyes caught sight of her hair, crudely hacked, tufts hanging about her head.

"I am ashamed," was all Domhnall said, when Osthryth stood before him as upright as her back would allow.

"Why, my Lord? I wished to win a sword."

"Not that, Domnall," He growled. Osthryth remained silent. It would cause further trouble and she sensed that the new rule of Flann Sinna under whose protection he and Constantine were now placed by default, was much different to tgat of Aed Findlaith's.

"You are to apologise."

"Why?

"What did he do that you kicked the boy in the ball bag?" Osthryth said nothing.

"So you aren't going to tell me. I can guess." He strode past Finnolai then rounded back on Osthryth.

"lf you had been a man, you would have been put to trial - you could be put to death, Osthryth if you were a man, one of my warriors!"

"If I were a man he would not have tried to force himself on me, four guards holding me down."

"I saw you there!" Domnhall shouted angrily. "If you had wanted a sword that badly you should have asked."

"I could not, my Lord!" Osthryth shot back, outraged. "I lost my father's sword; it was encumbent of me to earn a new one."

"You fought Domnall's servant," he rounded on her. "I don't know what you did - things are not as they are in Pictland; I am treading a very thin political line while Muire shelters Constantine and I."

She saw him flash a look at Finnolai as a measure of grim satisfaction caught in her mind: it wasn't just her imagination, she was right to believe things were changed.

"In the morning, I will take you before the High King. You will apologise for your actions and the shame you have brought." His face flickered, then he placed a hand on her shoulder.

"You may be whipped for this; it will depend on Flann's disposition, and he is not well disposed to girls who fight."

He turned to go, then scowled at her.

"Rest, do not leave the tent even if Constantine does come looking for you; do not run away." Then, looking her up and down, he said, "I do not think I have ever seen a duel fought with so much heart."

8888888

8

Osthryth slept. The night wore on until the early hours of the morning as her body healed. Finnolai had explained that most of her injuries were superficial. Her shoulder was deeply cut, and she had said, to his concerned face, that she had had worse.

Feargus and Tadhg had returned much later, inebruated but merry and had asked whether she had won the sword.

"Where is it?" Feargus asked, looking about him. But she explained briefly that Donnchada had the sword.

"No-one believed you a girl," Tadhg had said. "They were behind you, Osthryth, wanted you to win against Brin, who plays dirty amd cheats at cards.

"But - "

"When we saw it was him, we tried to stop you, but..." Tadhg draped his arm around her, and grinned, "I suppose you did not hear us."

"We are returning to Doire the day after tomorrow," Tadhg continued, smoothing his fingers through his fair hair. "I heard him telling Muire when I was tasting the delights of her lady-in-waiting!"

"Morag?"

"The delightful Morag," sighed Tadhg, "but I was looking for Gormlaith!"

"You never were!" Finnolai declared, shock in his voice. "It would be death or banishment should a warrior seduce a royal princess."

"You can swive her when you get back to Doire," mumbled Feargus, his eyes opening and closing. The young man showed no interest in swiving anything, female, male or beast, and it was strange to hear him talking of it. "Does she sing well?"

They laughed again, even Feargus, who probably, by now, was unaware what he was talking about.

"Flann wants to stamp his mark on his new territory," Finnolai mused, passing Osthryth a wooden tankard with some sort of distillation in it, some of it probably water. "That northern coast is rich in stone and fishing, and the Norse have not spread that far."

"Yet," Osthryth contributed, "He would press Christianity on the kingdom, as he has done here. Churches, crosses."

And another thought broke through her exhaustion, reminding her that two moons' worth of days would have passed. Beatha had promised to meet her.

"Doire is Christian!" protested Tadhg of his homeland. "Unlike the heathen land you come from." Osthryth nodded.

"Yes, it is that, now the Danes control it," she sighed. "And, that'll be the once great Kingdom of Northumbria, now returned to Thor and Woden, having been lifted from its paganism by Cuthbert and ColmCille."

"Ha!" declared Tadhg, mostly for Finnolai's benefit. "My hand-wed bean comes from the land made Christian by ColmCille! Of Doire, you know!" He made to punch Finnolai on the arm, but missed, falling face first onto the linen groundsheet.

"The land that does not believe in the sidhe, because you can't believe in something you know is real," Finnolai antagonised. "That's like believing in my sword."

"Or my fist," Tadhg mumbled back, as he sat back up.

"Or my arse!" Finnolai laughed. Then they were all laughing heartily, something they hadn't done since before Aed Findlaith had died.

Then, Feargus collapsed onto his woollen blanket, dark red hair haloibg his head as he began snoring and farting, to the rest of their amusement.

Then, Osthryth she had closed her and eyes, knowing that they were the four of them again. Even Domhnall had hinted at his approval of her skill in the fighting circle.

It was still dark. Osthryth opened her eyes, which made little difference. Three lumps to one side of her indicated that her three warrior-compatriots were in the land of the sidhe.

And then came another crunch, over the broken twigs fallen from the ash trees surrounding their area of the Banqueting Hall.

Osthryth opened her eyes wider, pushing herself up with difficulty on Finnolai's fur mantle. Her back was stiff; she couldn't have raised her arm to fight with the Frankish sword even if she had it.

What happened next happened so suddenly, Osthryth could barely believe it. Hands, enough to abduct one of the sleeping lumps of a warrior without a murmur of protest came in through the front of the tent.

Osthryth scrambled to her feet, slowly and with difficulty as muffled shouts ebbed away on the breeze.

It was Finnolai. He regularly slept by the entrance as it was usually the last place available when he returned most nights, the last of them.

Scrambling to her feet she tripped over the lump that was Feargus, bowling out of the tent, then scrambling to her feet.

Osthryth looked about her, adrenaline hiding pain as her back beat a dull thud of injury. Where had they gone?

Morning had not yet broken, but there was enough proto-dawn for her to distinguish two figures carrying something between them.

She tore towards them, as someone else joined the two. But it was not Finnolai: the high-pitched scream told Osthryth that. It was a woman.

Pushing harder, the stiffness her body making running worse, she headed after them, down past the southern Uí Néill camp, past the middens and onto the path that took her down to the beach where she had met the heathens.

Stumbling over gorse, Osthryth tumbled down the narrow path and catching her head against a tussock of grass. She shook herself, looking out towards the beach.

And froze. A ship, oars flat in the water, floated still in the glass-like sea, its sails betraying its trade. Osthryth gasped at the air as she hurried herself upright to work out what was going on. A man, vast, broad, hands either side of his protruding stomach, crouched down and investigated the bundle, who swiped and scraped out with her fibgers.

The captors of this woman stood either side of her as she turned and, predictably, made to run. Osthryth crouched lower, as the behinnings of dawn shone light on the slave trader - for that's what he was, his ship crewed by muscle and sinew, eyes belonging to that muscle peering over the taffrail of the vessel.

Osthryth skirted around another gorse, sand filling her shoes as the woman's captors negotiated with the man.

There was clearly a discrepancy over price: the slaver was not happy with the money the woman's captors thought she was worth, and he pulled her to him, hands squeezing breasts, squeezing buttocks, thighs. A slow grin formed on his face.

But it was clear the woman wasn't going to be sold as a slave easily. Struggling out of the man's reach, she charged at one of her captors, bending low. The other man caught her around the neck, however, and caught up her arms behind her back.

A price was clearly negotiated quickly after this, and the man bundled the woman into the little boat he had clearly come to shore in from the slaver. Another man, perhaps a second in command, stood, one foot on the bow of the ship as if anticipating the slave-captain's return.

The two men, deal done, were now heading up towards the dunes. Osthryth tucked in as much as she could, trying to look up to see if she knew the men, but it still was not bright enough for her to make out their features. They were young, though, and trod the dune-grass easily.

Osthryth got to her feet. The slaver was clearly having difficulty with the woman, who was struggling in his arms and she ran as fast as she could towards the little boat.

The slaver slapped her in the face, but the woman remained defiant. She then opened her mouth, as if talking.

Osthryth raced on, stumbling though the sand was flat from the newly retreating tide.

And then drew to a stop. The woman's voice could be heard, on the wind.

"Ethne!" The woman was shouting, shouting with all her might. "Tha mi Ethne! I am the Queen of Tara! I am wed to - "

Another smack in the face lulled the woman - Ethne - as the little boat reached its parent.

And then another thought struck Osthryth: she knew the name. Donnchada had said that name - Ethne - on the night after Aed Findlaith had been buried.

Ignoring the throbbing agony across her shoulders, Osthryth drove herself on, running into the waves. From the prow, the other slaver called to his master, and pointed as Osthryth drove further and further on.

But, it was all for naught. The woman Ethne was bundked over the taffrail, and the little rowing boat was hauled up and into the ship. A wave of the hand from the slaver who had taken the girl, and a shout of instruction down to the slaves caused the oars to rise, and then strike the water, pushing away at it, one side doing more work than the other at first, in order to turn the boat and head it out to sea.

Osthryth stood, thigh deep, in the brine as the morning sun shone down on tbe slave ship and its odious cargo.

She had seen slavers before: they were common on the horizon and the far distance over the seascape. Osthryth had asked Father Beocca about them, and he had not minced his words.

"Men should not take other men for property," came his reply. Yet, her Unvle Aelfric bought slaves from time to time to work in the kitchens.

Where would that woman - Ethne - end up? She was feisty, but hunger would wear her out in the end.

Was she really Queen of Tara? She must have made that up as a desperate attempt to be freed.

And yet, mused Osthryth, the identical name to hers had been spoken by Donnchada at Aer Madcha...would she make up a lie so obvious, considering all had seen Muire marry Flann Sinna two days before.

As she got to the stubby beach grass, finding the way easily with her feet, Osthryth suddenly pulled up sharply.

If the bundle those two men had been carrying was that woman Ethne, what had happened to Finnolai? She knew he had gone; the waxed linen groundsheet where he had lain, asleep, had still been warm.

Osthryth hurried back towards the camp, looking up towards the ridge over which Domhnall's warriors' tent was hung. What had happened to Finnolai?

It did not take Osthryth long to find out. As her legs wearied climbing past the midden heaps, a groan came from the dense forest of trees that lay surrounding the bottom sectoon of the Banqueting Hall field.

Further investigation led Osthryth to the outline of a cage, strung over a vast branch of a tree. The noise was coming from inside the cage, a fuffing noise, as if whatever was in there was trying to catch its breath.

It was Finnolai. Sun from the east shon onto his face. Hevloomed up when he heard Osthryth's crunchibg footsteps.

"Go away!" Hissed Finnolai, when je realised who it was.

"No! What are you doing in there?"

"Praying. Or I might as well be." Then Finnolai's dry sense of hunour failed him and he hung his head.

"I am to be sold."

"Sold?"

"Slavery," Finnolai sighed. Osthryth trod closer to the cage. It was likely. Unlike prisoners about to be executed, Finnolai had not been touch, lest he lose his value.

"The slave ship's gone," Osthryth asserted, sitting down next to FinnolI and recounted her story, about following him, about Ethne, and being Queen of Tara.

"It's probably true, if that was her," Finnolai said, sadly. "Ethne was Domnall's sister, and she was, up until Muire married Flann Sinna, his wife."

Osthryth felt her mouth fall open. His wife? When he had married Muire? Did she know about this? And what of Domnall, and Donnchada?

"Donnchada was probably put in charge of it all," Finnolai continued, his voice low. "Mael Ruanaid and Oengus are too young to have carried out such an intrigue." He sighed. "Married five years and not one pregnancy, let alone a child. And, the line must continue."

"But..." Osthryth broke off, considering the outrageous news, "... Domnall's sister...?"

"It's likely he didn't know. Probably why

"I chased after her...I couldn't run fast enough to save her..." Then, Osthryth looked at Finnolai.

"Why are you here?"

"I've been taken for selling to the slaves, too," the black-haired warrior replied, resignedly.

"But why?" Osthryth looked at her friend, demanding an answer

"I? I am what he has paid for the support of the Gaels here to regain the Pictish throne." He looked up at Osthryth, putting his hands over hers. "Domhnall said the political situation was precarious: Flann Sinna is purifying Christianity, so that God will favour him and the Eireann can unite against the Norse, including those in Alba."

"But - "

"Domhnall will be king; I can not be the reason he is not. He knows it."

"Domhnall did _this_?" Now, things were getting unbelievable. The look in their eyes, when she had chanced seen them looking at one another was pure, was one of love. But Finnolai shook his head and looked to the floor.

"I doubt he knows, and when he finds out it will be too late."

"But - " Osthryth felt amazed at this turn. For politics, these kings would sell their own family?

"Did I not say that to love a royal prince meant death?"

"Then, they should take me, too," Osthryth argued, for I have lain many tines with Constantine when I swore to Domhnall I would stay chaste."

"Men," Finnola clarified, but Osthryth did not believe it. A royal princess was about to enter a life of poverty and abuse, for this king to futher his ambition? No wonder Domnall had been incandescent.

"We can dig the floor!" Osthryth suggested, warming to an idea of escape. She scraped the earth with her hands, which yielded few fragments of earth.

"It's baked solid. Youl could never burrow through in a thousand years."

"Thoin-thar!" Osthryth swore, leaning back onto the cage, searching for an obvious solution.

"Come on, think, Finnolai!" But the warrior sank onto the floor.

"You're giving up?" Osthryth now turned her anger at his imprisonment and imminent fate back onto her friend. "You are letting yourself be sold into slavery for Domhnall?!"

"I would die for him," Finnolai sighed. But, that was not the answer Osthryth would accept. She tried pushing and pulling at the willow, but it would not move. A heavy second ring held tbe cage onto the floor. A key was needed. But, thought Osthryth, from where?

Her answer came in tbe form of a heavy, thick-set guard, thumping his feet across the leaf litter. Finnolai shook his head, willing her not to try anything.

But, Osthryth had already pulled herself up into the tree and watched the man wipe his hand across his nose then the huge gobbet of mucus into the meagre food ration Finnolai was about to receive.

As the man undid the lock, Osthryth observed that he had put key inside his jerkin. Good. There was a key, and it was there against his no-doubt sweaty, clammy body.

Osthryth moved so she was directly in line above the man and, when he was about to bend down to lock the cage, allowed gravity to pull her down onto him.

The man had no time to struggle, or prorest at her riding on his back: Osthryth had taken his head, fingers pushing his eyes into their eye-sockets before lifting his hair up with the back of his head slammed it off the hard-baked earth. Blood seeped out from under his head, and Finnolai drew his breath in sharply.

But Osthryth was already fumbling in the man's leather jerkin for the key, which she found easily and with it clicked the lock open.

"Come on!" urged Osthryth, as Finnolai continued to stare at the man. "You have to go, Finnolai," she urged, trying to force the heavy man back under the cage.

Just when Osthryth thought he would never duck under the woven willow cage, Finnolai stepped out, clearly upset about his future enslavement, and his love's political future.

"He would want you to live," Osthryth added, guessing his thoughts. Finnolai nodded, but then backed away as Osthryth held out so ethibg. Her last silver piece.

"I cannot take this!" Finnolai protested.

"I won it betting on cups," Osthryth lied, pressing her much-needed silver coin against her fingers.

Suddenly, Finnolai closed his hand around the coin, taking it from Osthryth, before haring off into the forest. Osthryth watched him go, until he could see him no longer.

88888888

"What say you, Osrit Lackland?"

It was the afternoon. Osthryth knelt before the High King of all Ireland, closing her eyes. Maybe Flann Sinna had presided over other matters, in the few hours that he had been voted as such. Now, a full council of the Uí Néill had been convened, seated in a horeshoe arrangement just before the Lia Fáil, the Stone of Destiny.

Osthryth had managed a few hours' sleep before Domhnall had fetched her himself from the warriors' tent, telling her that she was in disgrace and, by extension, so was he.

The true king of Alba was seemingly unmoved at Finnolai's absence, as Tadhg and Feargus flanked her past breakfasts for warriors and servants, their delicious smells filling the air with gastronomic deliciousness.

Osthryth's stomach grumbled as the charge against her was levelled, that she attacked Domnall mac Aed Uí Néill, having been brought from the competition ring by him the night before.

Osthryth had said nothing: Domhnall had spoken for her, standing by her side, Feargus and Tadhg just behind him as Flann, next to Muire, listened to him in sombre silence.

As they walked away from the camp and up towards the hill of Temair, Domhmall warned her to say nothing. But, before they set foot on the hill, Osthryth turned to Domhnall and smiled.

"I will not, Lord, for fear of further shame to you. I am sorry for this." Osthryth searched his face for some flicker of guilt, something that would tell her he knew nothing about Finnolai, but she could discern nothing and had to content herself with trusting that her friend had got himself as far away from Tara, from Midhe, from Eireann as he possibly could.

Now, with Flann's sons, Donnchada, Oengus and Máel Ruanaid at his side, and Contantine by Muire's Osthryth had knelt low on the grass of that sacred hill, ready to beg forgiveness from the new king, under whose protection she depended.

Yet, how could she, honestly in her heart, ask for it when at least one of the men before her had been complicit in sending into slavery one of their own, a royal princess, whose position as Flann Sinna's previous wife, and sister of Domnall had not been enough to prevent her fate.

And now, the High King had asked to hear from her.

"My Lord," she nodded across to Domhnall, "Has been good enough to allow me to warrior by his side," Osthryth began. "I am, first and foremost, a warrior, and I saw an opportunity to replace my father's sword, which was taken from me." She raised her head, and looked at Domnall.

"I deeply regret my actions to Prince Domnall, King of Doire, of the northern Uí Néill." She sighed, before finishing, "and whatever punishment you see fit, I shall bear it with my head held high, and the honour given to my by my lord Domhmall, rightful King of Alba, in the name of the true God Almighty."

There was nothing else to say, Osthryth thought, as she got up from her knees, keeping her head bowed low. She must trust that Domhnall would defend her, as his warrior, and try to forget that he may have been complicit in casting Finnolai, also his warrior, aside.

"My Lord King," Domhnall said, by her left. "Indeed, it is right to bring to hear the actions of my warrior and proclaim a judgment. This saxon girl was travelling to the holy island of Iona, on pilgrimage with her family when all were killed by a Norse attack.

"She saved the life of our cousin, Constantine, when he was a young child on the field of battle and has sought to do her duty by the House Àlpin ever since."

Osthryth felt herself crumble with humility at Domhnall's eloquence, his words condensing and distilling her finer attributes for the ears of a King of Kings.

"Moreover," Domhnall continued, placing a hand on Osthryth's shoulder, "She warrior of exceptional skill that I have sought to use to my advantage, sonething she hadls delivered many, many times. By her own admission she did attack my cousin Domnall. I can only assume, my Lord King - " he looked across to Flann, "That in doing so, no doubt she was endeavouring to protect herself as I instructed her to."

"Protect?" asked Flann, as Osthryth saw Muire shifting uncomfotably in the seat next to her new husband. She suspected what happened, Osthryth guessed.

"She was about to be violated," Domhnall continued, baldly, "And I thank you, cousin Donnchada, for your timely intervention in preventing this act." He nodded at Flann's first born, who sat still, silent, and nodded his head once, in acknowledgement.

"This prevented shame being brought to my name." He looked across at Domnall, whose complexion, Osthryth noticed, had paled to a milky-white. "I am sure you too, cousin Domnall, were only seeking to prevent her dishonour.

Domnall did not make any move, but sat still and silent.

And now, the king called Osthryth over to him again, beckoning wuth a thick finger, amusement in his eyes. Getting slowly to her feet, Osthryth walked steadily towards the High King, then much closer, for the king kept beckoning until Osthryth was within inches of his face. He appraised her body, and her hair.

"Cailíean cannot be warriors," he said, quietly. "Yet you can better the warrior of my nephew to win a sword?"

"I am no cailín; I am Anglish," Osthryth replied. "The sword was a good sword."

The king beckoned her closer still, stale ale and meat on his breath as he spoke close to her ear.

"You are no warrior without a sword," Flann continued, whispering only to her. "Your hair will grow again. During that time you must find a way to earn it back." Then, almost as an afterthought, added, "My nephew is as much of a bastard as his sister was a bitch."

King Flann of Tara and High King of All Ireland then pushed her away, pointing to a spot three feet in front of him.

Osthryth looked at it, feeling the weight of Flann's words. Ethne, a bitch to equal her bastard of a brother. Did she really deserve slavery? She faltered on her feet as she realised that was where he wanted her to stand. Domhnall strode over to it, standing next to Osthryth

"Osthryth Lackland, do you swear loyalty to the Àlpin line, throughout its generations for the remainder of your life?"

Osthryth turned, and looked at Domnhall. Women did not swear alliegances for women were not warriors. Who could trust a woman's word? Especially as this one had a prior call on her honour to leave the Àlpin line as soon as possible find her brother?

Everyone waited. Osthryth realised all eyes were on her. She had to make it true.

Lowering her eyes, she fell to her knees, head lowered, eyes to the grass.

"I promise loyalty," she declared, as clearly as she could, so no-one could mistake what she said, "to the line of Àlpin, King of Alba, to Domhnall," she looked up into Domhnall's pale, narrow face, into his grey eyes, then across to Constantine, similar in feature to his cousin, and added, "Constantine mac Aed and all who come after!"

It was clearly popular. A cheer arose from the warriors behind the royalty. Tadhg and Feargus knelt too, proclaiming their loyalty to Domhnall. Osthryth looked at their boots, a pang of sadness passing through her, for the pair that were missing, and sent a rare prayer for Finnolai's safety to God.

"Then, rise, Osryt Lackland," declared King Flann, who also rose. "King Domhnall of Alba," he said, beckoning him over. "I leave punishment to you for the wrongdoing over your warrior." Osthryth chanced a look across to Domnall, whose face was even paler than before, his features frozen, as if he dare not move them for fear of unleashing his anger.

"I give this to you," Flann added, taking up the Flemish sword, Osthryth's win which Donnchada had confiscated. Osthryth realised for the first time that it had been, for the duration of the trial, at the king's feet. "You will keep it on behalf of your warrior, and only allow her to have it when she has proved her oath."

And with that, Flann put out his arm for Muire, who got to her feet, giving Osthryth an impassive look, before walking past Donnchada, past Máel Ruanaid, his second son and the image of his father, past young Oengus and, finally, Domnall, whose face was blacker now than thunder.

The first judgment of the King of All Ireland was over. Osthryth was still alive.

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"I know what you did, and I thank you, Osthryth Lackland."

It was night, and Domhnall of house Àlpin had, after ordering her to rest, summoned her to his tent.

"You were very lucky this day," Domhnall continued, as she stood before him, still aching from her wounds, still ungainly in limb. "Flann is known for his severity; if it had been anyone else, he would have, no doubt, had you publicly flogged, then run through."

Osthryth nodded, thinking back to the words the king had spoken in her ear. Despite women being frowned upon as warriors, he had encouraged her. Flann Sinna had approved of her abilities as a warrior and given her hope.

"My punishment, Lord," Osthryth prompted. "I am here so you may thrash me."

Domhnall looked at Osthryth, his cold, grey eyes appraising her.

"Shall we say that the brutal fight you engaged in, to win your sword was punishment enough?" He held it up, withdrawing it, then, getting to his feet, spun it in his hand, feeling the weight.

"I may keep this: it is a good sword," he continued, then flicked the corners of his lips into a smile. "Perhaps it will be the sword I use to run Giric through, and reclaim my throne?"

Osthryth looked at the sword, dark texture on one side making it look as if it was sitting in shadow.

"Let it be so, Lord," Osthryth replied, "You said I can request a sword, so I request one." Domhnall shot her a look.

"You may not have a sword; not yet. I will keep this, it is yours - " Domhnall re-sheathed it into its fleece-lined scabbard, "But, you must realise, the situation with the Southern Uí Neills, especially Flann Sinna, with those in the north is precarious. You - "

Throwing down her sword, he drew Osthryth closer, placing a hand on both of her shoulders.

" - you fought and drew attention to yourself against Domnall's man, and not good attention. Flann hates Domnall, for Domnall is undermining the king; he wants his father's throne. You have played into their game." The King of Alba sighed.

"Osthryth, your actions are not worthy of an Anglish warrior." He pulled her closer, looking into her eyes. "Your actions today, yesterday, and always are worthy of a Gaelish Prince."

And then, Osthryth found she had pressed her lips to Domhnall's, breathing heavily as she brought her hands to his face. His hands were at her waist, and he kissed her, heavily, hungrily.

He was not like Constantine, who never kissed her; Domhnall felt strong under her arms, driving his lips against hers and the shivery sensations she had felt with Constantine came across her skin, faster, and more intensely.

A moment later, and Osthryth had pulled at his breeches, reaching down, touching him with her hand. His cock was not yet stiff: perhaps if she held it closely, and moved her hand up and down, as Domnall had done to himself before he had tried rape her, then -

Domnhall broke away, face beaded with perspiration, pulling her hand away.

"It cannot be, Osthryth," Domnhall protested.

"And I do not want it, really!" Osthryth protested, as the exiled King of Alba trailed a hand between them. Then, silently, she screamed, You could find Finnolai again; you could continue your love!

Osthryth chanced a step forward. "I would just need to be a warrior, by your side..." But Domnhall shook his head.

"I am to marry Mairi," he said, sorrowfully, turning his head from her. "These things are not for me; I do not want them as a man. I have to make Gaelish heirs, as must Constantine. But I must do them in order to be a king who will unite Alba under one ruler, and so, dear Osthryth," he looked up to her, torment in his eyes," I must be firm amd strong.

"Without Finnolai?" she asked, then regretted it as soon as she had said it. Hurt fillled Domhnall's eyes, and he narrowed his eyes towards her. And then, Osthruth realised, they were filling with tears.

"Without Finnolai," he confirmed.

"You may well see him again," Osthryth replied, quietly.

"He has been sold into slavery, shortly after Ethne. That is one reason Donnchada will rebel against his father some day." But Osthryth's heart began to lift and she smiled joyfully at Domhnall.

"What if I told you he hadn't?" Then, before Domhnall could ask her, she continued, "I let him go, I freed him!"

But, though Osthryth thought that Domhnall would be pleased, instead, he took her by the shoulders, his face filling with anger.

"You can't have! You mustn't have!" But Osthryth only smiled wider.

"I did! I freed him, I gave him all the silver I had!"

And then, the King of Alba drew her to him, holding her to him and kissed her forehead.

"You would indeed make a fine consort," Domhnall whispered, close to her ear.

"Then?" Osthryth whispered back. "For I would rather be wed to a king so I could continue to be his warrior." He drew her back, and looked into her eyes.

"That would never be possible. A king needs to further his line."

"If you required it of me."

"You are good, Osthryth; you have the heart of a Gael." Then, a thought occurred to Osthryth, a dangerous thought.

"What if I had something else," Osthryth babbled, desperately. "You want to expand your kingdom once you reclaim it?" He waited, looking into her face, said no words as Osthryth continued.

"I know you want to expand your kingdom into Northumbria," Osthryth's words tumbled over her tongue like spring water over rocks. "When you overcone your usurpers, this is what you desire?"

"It is."

"Well - " And then she stopped, her hypothalamus finally getting through to her hippocampus. It would be so easy to tell him who she was, that she had a claim on Bebbanburg, so any husband of hers would have a claim too, and on land in Northumbria

She could access the fortress through entrances only she knew...let his army in.

But then, Uhtred. Could she betray her brother?

The light dimmed in her eyes. She would not tell. She was the daughter of an artisan whose family died on the battleground before Dunnottar on a Norse attack.

"You should rest, Osthryth, for we have a long journey back to Doire." Domnhall stepped back from her, his mind filling with hope, hope that she had given to him. And Alba, he added, to himself, for we will be there sokner than anyone believes, thanks to the High King.

He watched the adolescent girl-warrior cross the stubby grass over to the waiting Tadhg and Feargus.

But no Finnolai. Because of her.

And because of what you did for him, you have saved yourself, Aedre of Bebbanbur

g

88888888

Whitsun 880

As Father Beocca left the church at Winchester that evening, a letter was pushed into his hand. Frowning in the candle-light he strode out onto Winchester's high street, the evening's sun's rays illuminating the yellowing sheet, looking over the letters once, and then once again.

"Good evening, Beocca." Uhtred Ragnarson's voice carried through the mellow air. He strode over to priest, who looked up from the missive. Beocca looked up, his face alight with happiness as he read the letter once more.

"Something pleases you?" Uhtred prompted, glancing between the priest and the letter in his hands.

"Uhtred!" Beocca snapped his head up, looking at the warrior almost as if he were a stranger. "Uhtred," he repeated, more softly.

"I went to see Alfred, as you suggested." Uhtred held his jaw, then shook his head. "I'm heading north, Father. I mean, Brida's gone with Ragnar - I feel Northumbria calling me."

"Do not tell me your gods call you," Beocca scorned.

"Bebbanburg calls me, and Dunholm and Eoferwic. So," he said, looking back at Beocca's letter. "What makes you look as if you have spent a year in a brothel?" Beocca gave him a deep frown.

"News."

"Good news?" Uhtred pressed. Beocca looked back to the letter once more.

"Good news Uhtred, or at least, I think it's good news. Now," he clipped, changing the subject before Uhtred could push it further, "If you are intent in going north, you should ensure someone responsible accompanies you."

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"Why did you bring the child?"

It had been three days since the battle at Strathearn, three days since the Norse, repelled by a co-ordinated attack by Flann Sinna and the Uì Nèill allies, had been forced to leave Eireann, had mounted an attack, first at Eochaid's capital in the green hollow of Cathures then, pushing east, ravaged villages in Strathclyde and in Pictland.

The kin of Ivarr had been vicious. Strathclyde had lost hundreds, and a similar number of Pictish warriors were left beside the river. But they had done it. Norse did not occupy Alba, did not subdue it or terrify its people. Instead, they had pushed south, into lawless, ungoverned Northumbria, and had subdued, terrify and occupied that kingdom's lands instead.

Constantine had returned, injured but victorious. A great feast had been held, exalting the Picts and Gaels, and their Strathclyde cousins. Constantine had then proclaimed them as one, one kingdom , called Alba, who had been attacked by the Norse, but had also been divided from Eireann.

"I pressed that Flann Sinna should reconsider - that the Norse should attack our country." Osthryth had watched from outside the main hall doors as Constantine had walked around his guests, all but declaring treachery of his Eireann kin. "More will come. But, united, we are strong: Strathearn has proved this. So," he had stood before the throne, holding aloft his arms, "I declare the country of Alba united!"

In the banqueting hall, all of the nobles were seated, with their households, with their lords. Constantine spoke to them all, _spoke_ for them all. It was a master-stroke of genius, all Alba kingdoms combined under one: much like the High King of the Irish, who had, inadvertantly, brought Constantine into an equivalent position here.

Even those who had fought with Giric against Domhnall at Scone, who had cursed the Àlpin name as they mourned the man they called "Lord" were applauding with hearty approval and unalloyed loyalty. It would seem that, on tbe anvil of invasion, as with Alfred, of subsumption by the Norse, as had been with the Danes in the south, had annealed a nation.

A huge cheer had arisen, and the king had continued, "how we are in the defence of our realm, so we will be in faith. Bishop Cellach works with me in this, _for_ _all_-_the_-_people_-_of_-_Alba_!"

The applause, remembered now in Osthryth's mind, died away as Conatantine's question filled the room.

"Because I can have none of my own. And, out of choice, the choice of seeing a child live when so many have died." Osthryth put her hand to her stomach.

That first time, in the scrubland of Doire, where she her body had expelled the first child, many more followed. She had used the root too many times - hadn't Beatha, the heathen healer, told her as much?

It was not often that the king asked for her company. In truth, after she had arrived, on that cold, rainy October night nearly three years before, he had sought out her company often. But, with her consistent rejection of his bodily advances, Eira had replaced her in Constantine's affection. As was right.

Osthryth did not no quite had brought him to bring Aedre to his room that night, but her sleeping form seemed to bring him a sense of peace - the same peace Osthryth had once brought him as a frightened, unhappy child.

"I am sorry for your losses," Constantine said, and leaned across the child, taking Osthryth's hand. Osthryth closed her eyes, the weight of her own lack of concern for these...losses...pressing down on her as the king sought her breast. It waa a strange sort of comfort he gained from this, Osthryth knew, but still, she shook him off. He sought her hand again.

"When is it you wish me to leave?" she asked, changing the subject.

"Not yet. The Norse grow too restless - they began to fight one another - my Uncle Flanna is uncompromising in his dedication in eradicating them from Eireann. More will follow the grandsons of Ivarr."

Yes, mused Osthryth, staring upwards, into the darkness. Flann Sinna was most inflexible in his attitude to ruling. Perhaps that was what the land needed: Eireann was altogether different to Alba, Waeleas or any of the Saxon kingdoms. Flann Sinna should be applauded.

"The Norse he expels come here still: already this day, they have ravaged the fortress at Dunkeld, where the relics of Saint ColmCille rest. Or, maybe by now, rested." The king sighed, a breath of frustration, Osthryth knew, not resignation.

"They take the farmlands around the Tay - they have no wish to move on. And Eochaid! Eochaid calls for help - after everything!" Then his voice dropped lower "Yet it is not Eochaid, it is Owain - Ragnall has invaded his lands since we expelled them, since."

"Aethelflaed has given them the Wirrall," Osthryth said, blandly, fighting away her instinct towards that abhorrent girl. "Aethelred has an unknown illness: she is in command."

"You have done well, Osthryth Lackland, and you have not even left Alba yet." Constantine moved his hand and began to stroke Aedre's hair.

"I have more campaigning to do: you will be required to leave should I need information. What I really need is a long term field agent, and you will be of no use if your mind is on Aedre."

The girl lying between them sighed in her sleep. If someone were to have glanced at a three of them, they would be forgiven for thinking they were daughter, husband and wife.

"There is no great hurry yet: I fear Aethelflaed's plan will be her undoing. Norse do not just accept land - they fight to take more. What cities are near the Wirrall?"

"Chester," Osthryth whispered. "It is a fine walled city once belonging to the Romans."

"My guess," Constantine murmured, Is that they will take this city and try to hold it as a staging post so more Norse can come freely from Eireann."

"And you wish I should leave then?"

There was a softness in her now, Osthryth thought bitterly. She would never have returned here willingly: her uncle was still alive, even now, and even now Constantine could propose a trade deal with her for more land...whatever use she still might be - little, she hoped.

But the little girl, hair the same colour as her mothers, bright orange-gold, like a bright flame; bright blue eyes, those of her father, Beocca's eyes, had chosen for her. Osthryth pictured little Aedre's face: soft, like all young chikdren, but was her mother's, angular, strong, like a fox, waiting and watching.

Yet, her first words had not Danish, nor yet Saxon, but Gaelish, like Constantine. Indeed, Osthryth could hear her intomation, calling her "Màthair" and Constantine "Athair", as he had always insisted she should.

Aedre would put a thumb to her mouth, saying, "bainne" and "aran", just as a Ga would. Ula, the heathen in Winchester who had saved her life when Thyra was dying, had warned she had a strong connection to her mother - but Osthryth could not speak Danish, nor yet entreach that she should teach her to be a pagan.

But, of course, Thyra had been baptised and was an active part next to Beocca. There was a part of her that meant that leaving her gods and turning to God, closed the door on the horror she had suffered under Sven and Kjartan's hands at Dunholm.

"You should teach her her father's language," Constantine said, again stroking Aedre's hair as she slept. Osthryth smiled - she had never seen the king be so tender towards his own children.

"Yes," Osthryth nodded. "She must learn Anglish."

"Inglis?"

"Aye. Beocca is not Saxon: I will teach her. Yet, it always feels strange to speak it here."

"Take her to Culdees: the Lindisfarne monks speak it there. Indulf will accompany me, so he will not need your sword-training."

"Over the water?"

"Yes." Osthryth nodded, then shuddered as Constantine trailed his hand over the form of her breasts again. Why whe tormenting her, mind and body? Did he not care that, though she would travel by boat to the monastery across the river, she hated to?

"You can not forget him?" He stopped moving his hand, but did not withdraw it. "He who it is you love with passion?"

In her head, Osthryth saw Finan, the only man who had ever made her feel love, rather than just do love. Well, the second.

But, Ceinid, too, invaded her thoughts but, to Osthryth, the head of the palace guard felt more like a father to her than the lover she knew he wanted to be to her.

Her mind pushed Ceinid away and her mind filled with Finan again: his breath on her face; his body on hers causing her to sigh and gasp...his hands holding her body, making her feel protected and safe. She could feel like she might have been if she could have been Aedre again. Aedre of Bebbanburg, with her man, Finan the Agile.

No-one else had ever made her feel like he had. He could hold her even for a second, and it was just him and her, just the two of them in the whole world.

"He's probably dead," Osthryth said, dismissively. "This happens when you associate with my brother."

"Then, that is settled," Constantine murmured, still touching Osthryth's body, his hand moving between the folds of her tunic and onto her bare skin. "I am leaving in the morning, to Scone, to plan our defences against the Norse, and to begin the church reform needed for Alba. You will stay here, you will educate Aedre." He withdrew his arm and began to sit up.

"I will." Then, another face invaded her mind: Domhnall would not have concerned himself with matters of the church. Relics and ritual meant nothing to him.

At that moment, Constantine felt more of a king to his people, both a warrior in body and for their spiritual concerns than ever his cousin did. MaelColm, Domhnall's son was likely to be king after Constantine, with little Indulf following after, as was the Gaelish custom. If the footprint at Dunadd was Constantine's, MaelColm would have a big void to fill.

Then, as Osthryth began to relax, as Costantine rose to his feet, the king of Alba asked, " A bheil thu gaol agam ort?"

"Tha gaol agam ort fhathast," Osthryth whispered, taking Constantine's hand. "Agus bithidh gu brath."

With her confirmation reaffirmed, Constantine got up from his bed very carefully, tush-tushing Aedre sothingly before leaving them both to sleep.


	8. Battle

Chapter 8

The last chapter was very long, I had a lot to fit in. What did you think? Do you prefer longer chapters or shorter?

I promise Osthryth is heading in Uhtred's direction!

A couple of readers have asked questions about this story: I always wanted to explore the back story of the "Celtic" nations at this time. They become, when Aethelstan becomes king, his main opponents (with the Danes/Norse still a big thorn in both his and Constantine's stories.)

When Aethelstan had provoked and humiliated the Scots (although it will be several centuries before Alba is called Scotland, and evennow it calls itaelf Alba) over many years, they remembered that the Britons were people who were there before the Saxons and Angles, and allied with Owain of Strathclyde and five Welsh (Cymric) kings. He also had help from Ireland, but NOT from Donnchada, who was High King in the 930s (there is drama with Domnall, the son of Aed Findlaith, and little Niall Glundubh, who gets to be king after his big bother but unfortunately gets on the wrong end of the Norse in the end - Osthryth has not seen the end of Domnall mac Finnlaith yet.

The help Constantine gets is from a cousin of Sygtrygrr - who we meet in the TV series 4, and in Warriors of the Storm where he has been expelled in one of Flann Sinna's purges of the Norse over the decade of the 900s.

This cousin I will not name yet, for he is intricately linked to Stiorra's children through Sygtrygrr's family. But, of course, Wikipedia contains all of this if you want to read ahead.

So, Constantine's cousin could not or would not help. And the irony is the king of Alba fought to expel the Saxons with the alliance he formed in 937 on the premise that the Saxons and Angles were invaders from across the sea, yet, he is Gaelish, whose ancestors came to Ireland at the same time as the Saxons came to Britain, with Norse allies, similarly "invaders". As such, the pagan "Celts" in Ireland had more in common with the Norse, with their multitude of gods than with the Gaels.

Thank you to all who have read my fic so far and the messages of some of you. So, what do you think? What are your predictions for the day Uhtred finds out he has a sister (another sister)?

8.

October 879

They had travelled back to Doire. The slow, steady stream of carts which had left four months before, taking the dead king Aed to his resting place at Ard Mharcha, the light-hearted, happy Muire to her new life married to the king of Tara, and the parley of the chlanns, of the children of the Uí Néill, for trade, for fun, for justice, for renewal.

It was autumn. Harvests had been gathered, food plentiful. Mornings began mild, with mists rising from the fields.

All Saints' Day, where every saint in Eireann would be remembered in a service at the monastery, as it had been a year ago was nearly upon them, and, the day before, dinner would be eaten in silence, apples would be shared and little trinkets laid about the land to mark samhain, the liminal line again between Christianity and heathenism.

There was renewal, Osthryth had thought, riding on the covered cart, MaelColm asleep next to her; Niall Glundubh begging for another story, of the princess in the castle by the sea.

(She would never tell that one again, Osthryth told herself, as she led the three girls and two young boys over the monastery: the boy remembered it too well. Instead, she stuck to the stories of Kings Solomon and David, of goodness and hope, of might and wisdom.)

On their return, the mood of the procession was solemn. They did not stop at Kells, nor Aer Mhadcha, instead, covered as much ground as possible.

Flann was concerned about this, the northern Uí Néill territory, and that of the Air Gealla. Cineál mac Conchobar, king of the Ulaid would not rest from the challenge to take the land he thought rightfully his: his departure from Tara was merely a retreat not a submission. The Ulaid would never accept a Uí Néill king as their High King and it was suspected that he would mount an attack, and soon.

No, Osthryth did not know the suspicions of the king: Tadhg told her, one night as they were resting in the stables of a monastery just outside Streadh Bainne, that this was his fear, which is why they were running, fast, for the fortress at Doire, to establish Flann's kingship in the north.

Osthryth found it was difficult without Finnolai, strange: they could all feel it. When they were riding, no-one was there to respond to Tadhg's suppositions that the spirits had made the day fine for them, or the water nymphs the rain.

Neither she nor Tadhg had Finnolai's patience practising swordsmanship with Feargus, ferocious, stolid, but with few tactics and both spat frustrated words at him. Osthryth missed him dreadfully: he had grown to he her friend; he had helped her with her hair, her clothes, her battle skills...sat with her when she wearied ahead of the other warriors.

He never demanded anything of her, not her time or her body and Finnolai's goodness left behind a gnawing hole in Osthryth's soul, balmed only with the knowledge that she had done what she could for him. He had silver; he would find a way to stay alive, well away, Osthryth hoped, from the Gaelish royal family who had plotted to enslave him like they had a fierce, inconvenient young queen that morning on the beach near Tara.

It had struck particularly hard on the morning they had left Streadh Bainne, just south of the river Foyle before they headed down river to Doire. Osthryth had asked Tadhg to battle her, and he murmured that he was a poor replacement, meaning to Finnolai, his verbal sparring partner.

Did they know where he was? That Domhnall was involved? Should she tell them she helped him escape?

But, in truth, both warriors had turned in on themselves. As Osthryth watched Tadhg's white-blonde hair spilled from under his helmet, and Feargus's fire-kissed head absorbing the afternoon sun's deep gold, she felt the weight of guilt on her stomach: she was with them yet Finnolai was not.

They had followed the Foyle along the valley as fast as the horses could take the retinue, laden with canvases, cooking pots, wood poles and chests.

Osthryth had looked on, towards Lough Foyle. It was nearly two moons; the heathen Beatha said to meet her then.

But, when Osthryth had slipped away to meet the heathens, she hadn't been there. For a week Osthryth walked the five miles to the sandy beach in the mornings and each time there was no sign. Not that she had the silver to pay any longer. But she had a sword, of sorts, and her ability to fight.

So she had gone back to the palace, increasingly annoyed at their arrangement being broken, avoiding Domnall mac Finnlaith, who had taken it upon himself to watch her walk, nothing more, just watch her pass the monastery and walk up towards the stables to sit with Tadhg and Feargus, his pale grey eyes resting on her until Osthryth turned her head and looked at him, the want-to-be king of Doire and all of the northern Uí Néill territory.

And it struck her, the second night, how frustrated he must be to lose his birthright, to be passed over at Teamreach, at the vote of High King and marriage to Mael Muire, to Flann Sinna. The young man, who had spent a good deal of his time up to his neck in drink and up to his groin in serving girls, his sister gone, must be very bitter indeed.

Osthryth's first duty when they arrived back at the northern Uí Néill's palace at Doire was to aid with the feast. Stirred by months of inactivity, like patting a chair heavily laden with dust, the maids, servants, kitchen boys, stable hands and housekeepers sprang into action.

Osthryth had been taken to the kitchens on the night they had arrived back and had worked into the night as the cook, harried with the journey, barked orders at her with words she could not understand.

The other servant girls did, however, and they scuttled about, carrying barrels, bringing chickens, plucking and de-gizzarding them; bringing ale.

As usual, they ignored Osthryth, instead, pointing to head, to her hair as she passed.

It was growing back, thick and stubbily and now, three days after arriving back, she was standing outside Mael Muire's chambers, answering her summons.

Dressed in a dark woollen dress, knitted shawl around her shoulders, King Flann's wife beckoned her in.

It was colder now, much darker than the last time she had been there, to receive instruction about educating theg children and had seen the gospel book, to be embellished by the squid ink from the sea beasts she was to find.

Queen Muire was not happy with Osthryth and said so. She began with the dress she had been given, which lay in shreds in the hedgerow about Tara. Then, to her battle with Domnall's man, whom she had killed, finishing with her refusal to marry.

Osthryth listened, keenly and intently, as the queen looked her over, insisting she see her wounds then insisting on Raonaid, her maid, bathe them.

They were not as bad as they could have been - Raonaid pointed out new skin forming on her shoulder and neck, and all at once, Osthryth was reminded of her good friend Finnolai, who knew how to treat her injuries and had quietly and gently soothed her mind, and was overcome with a shiver of guilt - he had had to run. For the Uí Néills; a girl, Domnall's sister, once queen to Flann had been enslaved: did Muire know this?

She was to continue teaching the children, Muire relayed. Osthryth's skill was valued, for both the princesses and the young princes and she should spend time in the monastery learning more. And to serve. Her bed was to be at the back of the kitchens so she could more easily work for Muraidh, the ill-tempered cook.

Before she left, Raonaid shaped her hair, bringing a thin blade that reflected the sun's mellow light onto its steel to Osthryth's head. Muire watched, but said nothing. Was she waiting for Osthryth to say something, about her treatment that night, by Domnall and Donnchada?

Muire was about to dismiss her, when the look on Osthryth's face instead caused the queen to call her to her.

"What troubles you?" she asked, kindness in her voice.

"My body," Osthryth blurted out. She had not meant to say anything, but her shape had been concerning her, "It has changed; it is different to once it was." The will had gone out of her fight, too, but this was nothing a queen could help her with.

Muire looked earnestly at her, as Osthryth felt her face redden with her confession and the queen laughed.

"You are becoming a woman," Osthryth, she tinkled, "You are...sixteen now?"

"Fourteen," Osthryth corrected, annoyed that these changes were because she was growing into femininity. Would it stop her from fighting? Domhnall had told her to eschew sex, lest she became with child - yet if her body was going to change anyway, and she could not continue to be a warrior, was there any point?

"You could marry," Muire suggested, still smiling at Osthryth, "We have warriors to whom you could be wed, and be safe; Domhnall has spoken to me that Tadhg or Feargus may be suitable, or one of our own; you speak Gaelish well."

"Marry?!" Osthryth scoffed, touching across to her shoulder. "I will never marry!" she declared, feeling the void which was Finnolai in her heart. He was the closest she would ever come to marriage, and his predelection for men would prevent anything - perfect to prevent children. Where was he? Osthryth sent up a silent prayer that he was well, and not recaptured.

And then, as she stood before the queen, who had taken Osthryth's declaration solemnly, she resolved to never give in to passion again, to remember she was seeking her brother, Uhtred, and yes, she would, she should fight the changes in her body and continue to be a warrior despite tiredness, lethargy, effort of will to fight. Despite Muire's reassurances, Osthryth still knew there was something not right with her body. She put her hand to her hair.

"It will grow, and you will be beautiful again," said Muire, misunderstanding Osthryth's decision to deny herself marriage. She nodded dumbly to the queen, who dismissed her. Yes, it would grow, and with it, so must she. She must leave this land.

But, did it need to? Men, Saxon men sheared their hair short - as did criminals within Gaelish society. She had lost her hair for her mistake - as long as it was short she would not forget it.

Instead, her shorn head would help her when she bidded to travel to Wessex, to Father Beocca, to Winchester, and to her brother.

88888888

As usual, Osthryth was already up the next morning before dawn, carrying and fetching in the palace kitchens: water, vegetables, deceased chickens. Her tasks had increased since she was last in that cold, stuffy place, the meagre fire doing little to raise the temperature as several of the jobs the servant girl, who looked ready to give birth any day, did had fallen Osthryth's way and the servants purchased at Tara were slow and reluctant, still at the "beat them to break them" stage.

Osthryth stared through the open courtyard door at the wretches, many from over the water, from Cumbraland, her mother's kingdom, and southern Northumbria, by the coast opposite the coast of Eireann. Osthryth had seen a map in the monastery showing all of the kingdoms of both isles, a young monk, Anndra, who opened the monastery to the little scholarly party each morning pointed them put to her one night when she had returned claiming to be preparing her lessons, but instead was seeking more information about Uhtred.

He had shown her Alba and Mercia, Wessex in the south, and East Anglia, Waeleas and Cornwalum. On the smaller isle the Uí Néill territories were picked out large and bold, marking their importance. But Osthryth's eye had caught a tiny fortress on Englaland's east coast, marked Bebbanburg, close to Pictland; far from Wessex.

Now, as the sun stretched its rays over the stony courtyard that morning, Osthryth wondered whether they had all come from Englaland? Christians were not supposed to enslave Christians, yet half a dozen were young men with strength in their arms, who whipped their chains and begged in vain for God to grant their freedom.

Poor men, Osthryth thought, as the guards beat the men with sticks until they cowered away towards the damp, mulchy earth. Poor men traded for gold, men like Finnolai, who may have wronged someone more powerful than them, or had just gone voluntarily to prevent their families from starving to death.

Not all of them were from the British Isles, though: two other men were dark-skinned, clearly purchased by the Danish slaver from a land overseas.

They were more willing than the other men to work, and worked faster than the Irish servant girls, who clearly resented their efficiency, hurling terrible insults to the two men about the tortures they wished on them in hell as they went by, though not being understood at all. One or two of the slave women looked up, the ones Osthryth suspected were of Cumbraland, for Cymric was similar to Gaelish, and they cowered behind ther buckets of well water, hoping that the servants did not curse them to hell next.

Osthryth empathised with the dark-skinned girls, their black hair standing proud of their heads against the pale blue autumn sky, wishing she could offer her sympathy. But neither spoke Gaelish, Anglish, Saxon or Cymric - the slave keepers had tried those languages out on them the day before.

They did understand the stick and the leather horse lash however, though neither of the two had done anything to deserve a beating, but they got one anyway, to show them their place.

Osthryth had decided to give them bowls of gruel a little fuller than those of the Irish servants and, that morning, smiled at them as they beat the laundry with stones and stood between them as two stable hands tried to back them into the store house, the handle of Tadhg's short-sword in her grip, ready to pull it.

It was they who found Osthryth that morning, when the Irish servant began to groan, a thin liquid, dark and bloody, running down her leg.

Shouting what sounded like instructions to Osthryth, pointing and grasping her tunic, Osthryth realised that the girl's baby was to make an appearance, and soon.

As she turned to look for help, Osthryth realised she was the help for which the pregnant girl's eyes were searching and a sudden feeling of panic flashed through Osthryth and she grasped for the thick, oak ill-fitting planks that boarded over ancient posts, nausea following soon after.

She felt a hand on her shoulder and looked down. It was the other servant girl pulling at her jerkin, trying to get her attention, speaking Irish so fast that Osthryth could not make out the words. Terror was etched into her brow. There was something wrong - something very wrong with the birth and both Irish girls knew it.

Osthryth approached the girl, looking at her face, her hands, and down to her legs. It was clear both girls expected her to do something.

She did: she reeled, acid sickness catching in her throat as the girl cradled her hands between her legs, more blood seeping out onto them.

"Come!" Osthryth encouraged, beckoning both girls down back to their beds. But both of them stopped still, the other girl gabbling something which sounded beseeching, panicky.

Maybe she could stay in the hall and get someone else to help? Osthryth knew little of birth, and she paced away from the servants, to a howl of dismay as the pregnant girl buckled over towards the whitewashed wall of the back kitchen, her friend shouting back to Osthryth as she supported her.

Before Osthryth she had a chance to find anyone however, a knock at the kitchen's oak door drew her attention. As she opened it, it was none other than the princess Mairi, giving her a solemn, doubtful look.

"You are to take us to the monastery now!" the girl demanded, folding her arms. Beyond the gate, in the quadrangle of the palace gardens, the oher children stood. "Aunt Muire commands it, and - "

A scream broke her sentence. Startled, Mairi looked past Osthryth and up along the stone-floored passage.

"It's the servant girl," Osthryth explained, looking towards the scream, low and long as it was, like a cow in pain.

"You are helping," Mairi concluded, stepping back through the door, trying to ose it behind her. But Osthryth gripped onto the iron ring of the latch, holding the door firmly, her knuckles going white. Mairi looked up into Othryth's face.

"You are going to help," she declared, as vomit regurgitated into Osthryth's throat.

"And do what?" Osthryth managed, gagging on the sour backwash in her mouth. "You would have been drowned the day you were born," her uncle Aelfric had often told her bitterly, usually when he had given a good proportion of his wealth in tribute. So Osthryth had ensured she had behaved as much like a boy as she could, and avoided learning womanly skills, including childbirth.

Mairi looked between Osthryth's hand, still gripping the door frame, and her face. Another scream, low and cold made Osthryth shudder. Mairi beckoned terrified servant girl who had followed Osthryth. Beside her, Aila, the Irish servant babbled something again.

"Go!" Mairi commanded, in Gaelish to the girl, then turned her haughty face to Osthryth.

"You will know what to do - go with her!" And, before waiting for an answer, the princess strode off in the direction of the kitchen.

Ailie, the pregnant servant, was still moaning, though not so loudly; her face was pale, shimmering with perspiration. Osthryth went to console her, to help her, but the girl's body felt too fragile, as if the next sigh would be her last.

"Lie her down," she suggested, but Aila pushed her away.

"She must stand," the servant girl said, then pointed towards the back rooms, where they slept.

Osthryth bent to curl Ailie's arm around her neck, to get her to the back rooms but she shuddered, then screamed. Aila shouted at Osthryth to stop.

"No!" Mairi's voice rang out down the stone passageway. Osthryth turned to see the Limerick princess hurrying after them, pointing. "No! Black water!"

"Black water?" Osthryth echoed, looking around. Aila, who washolding Ailie's other arm screamed, pointing behind the now weakening girl.

"The baby is in danger!" Mairi shot back, dropping the nundle of blankets she was carrying. "Stand her up, as tall as you can make her."

"And then what?"

What, indeed. The morning passed, whether it was hours or minutes, Osthryth could not say. Ailie howled as Osthryth drew her upright, walking her to the rooms in which they slept, Aila comforting her.

"The babe that grows within her takes her strength," Mairi told Osthryth, who narrowed her eyes as the girl thrust a bucket of hot water into Osthryth's hand, demanding the kitchen maid bring them more.

"You know a lot about this," Osthryth commented, as Mairi instructed Aila to take her clothes, then position Ailie so she could help birth the child, through a tangle of blood, black water, clear fluid.

"My sister is married to the king in Munster. I am here for my education, but before I came, I helped my sister." Mairi smiled, and Osthryth realised the smile was intended to reassure her.

After that, the time passed indeterminedly, as Mairi took charge, comforting and encouraging the girl on turn as she laboured painfully to produce, in the end, a small but healthy boy.

Osthryth stood back as Mairi instructed Aila on how to help Ailie with her son, just one thought in her mind: to find the heathen, Bheatha, and beg her to show her ways of getting rid of it.

"Now get water," Osthryth heard a tired, fluid-covered Mairi tell the kitchen maid, "She needs rest and to drink." Osthryth stumbled past them, nausea in her throat, darting as she was for the door to the courtyard and into the open air.

She stood by the hay cart that one of the slaves was unloading, inhaling the fresh harvest's scent deeply.

After a few moments, she was aware that a now cleam, spotless Mairi was approaching her. Osthryth turned her head, smiling at the girl.

The sun shone high and warm in the summer sky as Mairi began to speak to her, but she turned aay and vomited.

"All that blood...!" was all Osthryth could manage, and she felt the girl's smile light on her face.

"You have been in battles!" Mairi replied, astonishment in her voice. "You have known such horrors!" Osthryth looked at the princess, who had conducted herself with such grace as she comforted and soothed the servant girl.

"Battle, yes," Osthryth scoffed, holding her stomach and vomiting again. "Battle is easy: you stab, cut, kill and the ground fills with the filth of spilled guts and the mounds of metallic-smelling bodies of men, now meat. But birth..." Osthryth broke off, looking past Mairi to the back kitchen rooms where a soft crying was coming, "It is delicate, it is cautious...how did you know what to do?"

"My sister, Queen in Munster, she has had many children, not all of them living. I learned to help her." Osthryth turned and vomited again

Mairi laughed gently, not mockingly and Osthryth laughed too. The younger girl placed an arm on her shoulder, tenderly.

"Perhaps there is a place for all of us: to be a warrior, like you, to be a midwife, like me. We will both become mothers, in the end."

"Not I. I will never marry," Osthryth declared.

"Do you think she is married?"

"I will never bear a child," Osthryth corrected. "No child will grow in me; I could never warrior if I became with child." Mairi patted her shoulder, which twinged a little still from her fight in Tara.

'I think you will be a mother," Mairi said, as Osthryth heaved again onto the earth. "Would you like to see the baby?"

A warm summer wind wove around them, as Osthryth watched Mairi walk towards the kitchen doors. No, a thought told her, but she followed the princess anyway - haughty Mairi who had probably saved two lives that morning.

Ailie was producing the afterbirth as Osthryth made her way through the oak doors, which caused her to pale again. Mairi thrust a wooden bowl of now-cooled boiled water towards her, which Osthryth drank down gratefully.

A few words between Aila and herself, which Osthryth couldn't quite grasp, though sounded like instructions amd reassurances, then Mairi told Osthryth she was to change.

"When Aunt Muire asks if this, you must tell her you did this," Mairi sighed, exhauted with the effort of the morning.

"But -"

"It is unseemly that I would have intervened - Aila will wash my clothes - she will tell it was you, not me."

"But -" Then Osthryth stopped protesting. It was clear Mairi had breached royal - and social - boundaries by birthing bastard child that morning. It was also clear that the haughty, imperious princess felt it was safe to confide in her - Osthryth - female warrior, daily reminder to everyone that she was damned for it. Osthryth watched Mairi head towards tbe royal quarters, and she turned, in the warm sun, making her way towards the monastery.

The children had been taken across by Gormlaith and, when Osthryth arrived, had been busy on their letters, for the younger boys, Gormlaith, noticeably thinner than Osthryth remembered from her time at the Tara Fair, stood reading the gospels, her heart-shaped face lined and colourless. She smiled her delicate smile as Osthryth entered the tiled library, though Osthryth discerned its bow seemed weighed by a heavy force.

Mairi joined them shortly afterwards, and Osthryth's mind turned from Gormlaith as that morning's midwife resuming her proud, lordly demeanour as if that morning had never had been.

Once or twice, Osthryth glanced at the girl as she looked up from her work, twinkling her pale blue eyes at Osthryth, yer the rest of the day passed uneventfully before she organised the little party to cross back to the palace.

Leaving them at the door to Muire's chamber, mind filled with thoughts of the monastery, and particularly a fresh batch of letters which had srtivedvthat morning, Osthryth was surprised when, as the door opened to let in the royal children, it remained open and she was summoned in.

"I'm hardly dressed for an audience with the queen," she thought, as she trod her muddy boots onto the delicately woven carpet, yet it was Queen Muire who had summoned her and, with the children at her side, asked her about the events of the morning, confratulaying her.

"Yet, you neglected your duties," Muire rebuked, harshly. "The children were left unprotected for nearly three hours; they had to find their way to the monastery themselves - Mairi has missed her studies, for you did not know where she was - ".

Osthryth stopped herself from looking at the girl, but she could feel her eyes on her, begging Osthryth to hold her peace.

"I...could not see the girl suffer; the child was in danger. We are all God's creatures and my instinct was to help one of them to live." Then, she bowed her head, hoping she sounded penitent. "I should have guarded the children, your grace, only I thought the other servant girl could handle the birth. Yet, Ailie produced black waters, and - "

A look of horror passed over Muire's face for a moment, betraying to Osthryth that the queen knew the gravity of such an event, even though she - Osthryth - didn't.

But, she would never forget the look on Ailie's face, the look men gave her at the point of death on a battlefield: she never wanted to put herself into tbat much danger, and resolved again to find Bheatha and Finn, to procure from them herbs and roots to prevent a child - even permanently - if only she could find them again.

"I will overlook it," Muire said, interrupting Osthryth's thoughts, "But this evening, Mairi will make up her studies with you before your meeting with Domhnall."

That was news to Osthryth, and she said so, the thought of an evening searching for her brother and Beocca in the monastery's recent correspondence evaporating like morning dew.

"My son told me," Muire said, then raised her hand, dismissing Osthryth, with Mairi at her side.

Domnall? Why was he privy to a meeting with Domhnall? Osthryth thought about this as they trod the dry earth between the back of the palace again and the St. ColmCille's monastery, Mairi walking silently next to her.

And she was still wondering that when she dismissed the now more educated Mairi back to the palace before crossing over the short grass to the stables.

The warmth of the animals was oppressive on that balmy night and Osthryth found Taghd and Feargus up on the stable roof. With them was the heir to the northern Uí Néill, who stared at Osthryth as she sat down next to Taghd, who offered her the rest of his apple.

She bit into it, listening as Taghd and Feargus discussed why it might be that Domhnall wished to see them, her heart sinking at the realisation that one of them was missing: Finnolai!

She had been expecting to see the warrior sitting with them, stretched out next to Taghd as he ribbed the blonde-haired warrior about his belief in the sidhe, or sipping ale from a tankard as Feargus regaled them with a far-fetched story about a battle in the highlands against the Àlpin family's biggest rivals, now firmest friends, the Grighiurs.

Her eyes rested on Domnall again as Taghd passed her ale: what was he doing here? Why was he at Domhnall's meeting? She knew she would be subject to a beating, otherwise she would have leapt on the prince and beat him, for what he had done to her at Tara, and what he had done two days before, laughing as he fouled the passage she had spent the morning cleaning, with horse-shit, causing her to have to re-clean the whole lot.

Sensing tension, Taghd moved nearer to her, congratulating her on birthing the servant's child so well that morning. Osthryth nodded, dismissively: it had been Mairi, of ourse, and she felt as if she should congratulate Constantine, who had settled down next to her on the sun-warmed clay tiles, on his betrothal to such a sensible girl."My son told me," Muire said, then raised her hand, dismissing Osthryth, with Mairi at her side.

Domnall? Why was he privy to a meeting with Domhnall? Osthryth thought about this as they trod the dry earth between the back of the palace again and the St. ColmCille's monastery, Mairi walking silently next to her.

And she was still wondering that when she dismissed the now more educated Mairi back to the palace before crossing over the short grass to the stables.

The warmth of the animals was oppressive on that balmy night and Osthryth found Taghd and Feargus up on the stable roof. With them was the heir to the northern Uí Néill, who stared at Osthryth as she sat down next to Taghd, who offered her the rest of his apple.

She bit into it, listening as Taghd and Feargus discussed why it might be that Domhnall wished to see them, her heart sinking at the realisation that one of them was missing: Finnolai!

She had been expecting to see the warrior sitting with them, stretched out next to Taghd as he ribbed the blonde-haired warrior about his belief in the sidhe, or sipping ale from a tankard as Feargus regaled them with a far-fetched story about a battle in the highlands against the Àlpin family's biggest rivals, now firmest friends, the Grighiurs.

Her eyes rested on Domnall again as Taghd passed her ale: what was he doing here? Why was he at Domhnall's meeting? She knew she would be subject to a beating, otherwise she would have leapt on the prince and beat him, for what he had done to her at Tara, and what he had done two days before, laughing as he fouled the passage she had spent the morning cleaning, with horse-shit.

Sensing tension, Taghd moved nearer to her, congratulating her on birthing the servant's child so well that morning. Osthryth nodded, dismissively: it had been Mairi, of ourse, and she felt as if she should congratulate Constantine, who had settled down next to her on the sun-warmed clay tiles, on his betrothal to such a sensible girl.

They were to return, Domhnall told them, at Samhain, to spring a surprise winter attack on Eochaid at Glaschu, offer peace terms and make the usurpers pledge fealty to Domhnall; take some of their kin as guests into the household - hostages in lieu of Eochaid and Giric's alleigance.

His troops had, he explained, pledged loyalty to Giric, but would turn on the usurpers once Domhnall had shown himself ready to battle in late autumn.

"I need every one of you to be at my side; my royal guard. Should I fall - " he looked at Domnall, " - Constantine must retreat - you must!" Domhnall insisted, as Constantine opened his mouth to protest, "For you are of Ceinid mac Àlpin's kin - you are my heir!"

That last sentence, spoken clear and true in the late August evening, brought them all silence; the sharp, direct point of them being there, and being in exile too. Minds laid dormant over the time they had been in Muire's court over the water in Eireann sprang to attention.

"Domnall is accompanying us. As Constantine and I have been graciously harboured in exile, so will we do for our Aunt the same service for Domnall.

Domnall mac Àed said nothing, just looked solemnly at his cousin.

Then, Osthryth recalled Domhnall's words when she had stood before Flann Sinna, in his first act as High King: you have come between Domnall and Donnchada.

Both sought the throne after Flann, Osthryth realised, and Muire had arranged with Domhnall for her eldest son to be exiled with Domhnall when they returned to Alba in return for his battle service.

She looked across to Domnall, who caught her eye, narrowing scornfully at her. Better hope he grew out of silly pranks, as Constantine had done, before they left, or he might find himself on his arse.

And better, Osthryth thought, that she sought the heathen again, Bheatha and Finn, so she was fit to fight for her Lord.

Before dawn, Osthryth trod the miles past the monastery and out to Lough Foyle, thoughts of illness and lily root in her mind and silver in her pocket should Bheatha be able to sell her more.

There was no sign of either woman or boy however, and Osthryth chose to bathe in the cool water before hurrying back to the monastery.

Out beyond the castle, as she raced into the grounds, Domnall was drilling his men, a banner in the ground - a red right hand gripping a cross - like the ancient symbol of the Ulaid in the gospel book that Muire left to be completed at Kells.

Osthryth smiled to herself at the rivalry: the Uì Nèill had gone one better, declaring for Christ that the ancient pagan red hand of loyalty took up Christ in its fist.

Was he convincing his step-brother, however? Domnall was not the most diligent of people, and to now be drilling his men after his meeting with Domhnall seemed to Osthryth a little suspect. Yet, reports had come in that Danes had been raiding the Ulaid coast - it was good for everyone that they were prepared.

The children were waiting at the royal buildings' doors: she was late, and Mairi looked to be preparing to walk with the children across to the monastery: each older girl had two of the younger boys squirming in their grasp, and she smiled at the sight of Osthryth racing towards them.

Anndra, one of the novices, let them through the side door of tbe monastery, straight into the church, warm harvest sun lighting up the cloister, spilling over the six scholars like melted butter as they trooped to the chapter house through the side door, then down to the scripture room, where they would have their lessons.

Osthryth thanked Anndra as he opened the day's learning out in front of her.

Why Mairi or Eira still needed teaching, Osthryth didn't know - they were soon to be wed to Domhnall and Constantine, yet they had followed her as brightly and silently as they always had done, helped the boys up to the tables as the willowy Gormlaith, whose face seemed even more pale in that morning's early light laid out scripts, and, as ever, Osthryth heard them read, copy out texts as the children recited passages in turn.

When they were writing, Osthryth took a chance on some freshly stored manuscripts, hoping for a word or two from Wessex. But, it was only when she felt Mairi's delicate hand on her shoulder that Osthryth realised she had spent so long reading. Their relationship had changed since Ailie's birth, and Mairi's cool, capable demeanour contrasting with Osthryth's horror at it all.

Now, Mairi treated her with a littke more respect; Osthryth confided more work to the girl, allowing her to manage her own wprk and take charge of the younger princes.

"Good book?"

"It tells of the kingdoms over the sea." Osthryth tried to sound vague. For, she had discovered, a great victory had been won: the Danes had taken every kingdom of the heptarchy bar one. Wessex was the last kingdom still ruled by Saxons; Alfred of Wessex, the king, had taken a few dozen men to fight them, a last stand. And, at Ethandun, they soundpy beat the Danes. Guthrum, whose sins pillaged Ulaid territory, had been baptised.

A powerful king, Osthryth thought that night, as she listened to the murmurings of the little child with its mother across by the other stone wall. Beocca had been there - he had written the letter, which had gone the long way: Lindisfarne, Culdees, Iona, Rathlin, before it ended up at Doire, each monastery taking a copy before sending the original on.

She had traced over his letters with her fingers, the same rounded letters as she had seen in illuminated books wrote of King Alfred's glory. Could she imagine he would be reading it? Dear Beocca, who gave his lessons to her, fleeing himself from Bebbanburg.

That she had found him, at least alive, as recently as May gave her reason to hope. Osthryth closed her eyes, and prayed, for the battle survivors, for Beocca and Uhtred, whose name was not mentioned, but, from another document, credited him with loyalty to Alfred. She prayed she would see her brother healthy and that, after all those years.

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Osthryth's persistent scouring of the dark sand beyond the wide, open lough paid off a week after Domhnall's meeting.

Before dawn, Osthryth would rise, a lump in her throat at the anticipation of finding Bheatha, the jumble of words in her mind about her body and its differences spinning round through her kind as she scrambled through her duties in the kitchen - collecting water from the well, lighting a fire, preparing the day's vegetables, then walk quickly the few mikes to the coast.

Domnall would always be up, a more disciplined prince altogether, as he drilled his troops, mind more focused since his meeting with Domhnall, red hands holding the cross standing out for miles, even as far as the ridge over which Osthryth must pass in order to descend into the shallow scooping of the lough's bay.

That she would have joined him, Osthryth had considered it, yet he was still not above silly pranks: only three nights before, when all of her bedding from the ledge in the tiny room at the back of the kitchen had vanished, only to mysteriously reappear after a wasted hour's search for it.

And, she had a pressing matter to attend to each morning: that was, to search for the heathen healer.

Two moons had passed, so each morning the strength of her hope faded that she would ever see the heathen again, but this morning, a bright, cool September Monday, Bheatha's black-haired, russet-clothed figure contrasted easily against the blue-green of the rising tide. Beside her, little Finn scampered, picking up ribbons of knobbly seaweed with joy, before placing them in his mother's basket.

As Osthryth approached, Bheatha gave a little start, as if to flee, but then on recognising Osthryth, stood still, waiting for her to approach, long black hair moving in the morning breeze.

"Good morning," Osthryth said, then stopped, when the woman did not return her smile.

"You sold me lily root," Osthryth reminded the heathen woman, in the late spring time."

"You stole our squid," the woman returned. "I do remember you, warrior girl...Saxon." She spat the last word, folding her arms.

Osthryth frowned. Is that what the heathen woman thought? She turned to go, then remembered why she was there.

"The squid were no more mine as yours," she replied, coolly. "I came, as you asked, two moons later, and you were not here; I have come most mornings."

"We do not recognise agreements with Christians!" Bheatha retorted. "This land, on which we have moved for the longest time, we are being forced from! It is no more theirs as ours!"

Osthryth frowned, trying to work out the riddle. From the heathens' point of view, her mother had once told her, land to the heathen belonged to the gods; there was little sense of property, only territory presided over by leaders and those with knowledge of hunting, healing, cooking, ceremonies and so on. Who had taken their land?

"Norse? Danes?" Osthryth asked.

"Gaels!" Bheatha handed her basket to Finn, who was sheltering behind his mother. "The Norse do not force their beliefs onto us, nor will us to give up our beliefs, or ways. We are more alike than we are different! They want land, we merely pass over it. But the Gaels!" The woman, her ire a ferment, narrowed her eyes to Osthryth then turned on her heel.

"But...!"

"And you are no better, Saxon girl, for it is the same intolerance that burned my family!" Osthryth watched as the woman turned to go, scooping up her son.

"Your family...burned?"

"All the way back to the ancient days: all the way back to the First Peoples!" Bheatha glared at Osthryth, before stalking back through the footprints she had made in the damp sand.

The First Peoples? Osthryth had a vague idea the woman meant their dead, for pagans kept the dead together in one place, the only tine they claimed land, of sorts. Osthryth had seen such a grave setting in Pictland, where the heathen would take offerings and wood, chipped with lines of various lengths: a language of some kind, old, ancient. Ogam, it was called, by the monks.

And High King Flann had been determinedly purging all pagan sites: groves, burial chambers, spinneys of trees in order to embed Christianity amongst every person on the island of Eireann. Perhaps men had destroyed Bheatha's family graves?

"Can I help?" Osthryth called after her. "I am no Gael! I am called Lackland."

Bheatha stopped her fierce striding and turned.

"You are not a Gael, but you mimic them. I have seen you, running, guiding, fighting. From wherever you came, you are using them for shelter. That makes you no better." She looked up and down Osthryth's body.

"I can fight for you!" Osthruth declared. "I can protect your family!" But Bheatha shook her head, her thick black hair tossed in the coastal breeze, so it followed behind her like a storm cloud.

"You came here because you want something from me, Lackland," Bheatha said, warningly.

"Yes."

Osthryth lowered her head, as humbly as she could. "Yes, I do. I...need your help." From her jerkin she pulled out the last of her silver, holding it out to the heathen woman, whose eyes flashed at the rarity. Then, she reached down to the basket, pulling out a linen packet, soft and motile.

"Here is a balm made; it is of terabinth, from a very distant land, and honey. This will soothe your injuries: it will make your flesh strong again. And..." She looked at Osthryth again, not at her face, but extended a hand, looking at her stomach.

"Have you felt the quickening?"

"Quickening?" Osthryth stumbled over the word.

"Here. Movement." Bheatha looked down to her hand, as if her palm would induce this quickening. "Do you not know? A woman is not considered to be with child until she declared she has felt the quickening. It is the child gaining its soul." And when Osthryth didn't answer, Bheatha asked, "Have you felt a quickening?"

"I am not with child; I am a warrior!" Osthryth protested.

"Do you have your bleedings?" Osthryth stopped, thinking. It had been several months since she had sought the leaves to pack inside herself.

"Not for some months."

"You grow a child, landless warrior." Osthryth felt her mouth fall open.

"I cannot - I have to be - " Iona, Dal Riata, Pictland, and her role by Domhnall's side flashed into her mind

"But, you are," the healer said. "The quickening...have you felt...movement?" Osthryth shook her head.

"Then, should you not wish to be with child, then take these." Over Osthryth's hand the woman held a tangle of yellow flowers and root.

"Tansy. But it is a terrible way to be without a child. Though they do it for selfish reasons, your Christian nuns and monks have the best route to childlessness."

Osthryth touched her fingers to the flower, then withdrew her hand, looking at the woman, who was about to turn away.

"Why do this, when you would not wait for me, as you agreed?" The woman shrugged.

"We can never trust Christians; they worm and twist until their religion destroys our own. And you - " Bheatha looked appraisingly at Osthryth, "You want to be more than a woman; you would be a man - " she shook her head, looking at Osthryth's face. "Motherhood would not suit you, indeed."

Osthryth's mind drifted, like the light, autumn clouds far above her, to the boy born to the servant girl and her revulsion at the birth, how Ailie had nearly died, as did her baby. What a risk to take. Her eyes moved to Bheatha's face, sharp, clever features with the knowing that she would come to recognise in all pagan healers.

And maybe she was wrong. Yet the heathen woman was definite about her being with child.

Osthryth extended her hand towards the tansy, holding in the other the silver. Bheatha swiped the piece, thrusting the tansy root towards her.

"You must take it soon, before the child comes into its soul," the woman warned. "It is more a curse than a gift. You must take it soon, or the child will have begun to shoot from the germ taking hold inside you. At that time, you will be risking your life to remove it."

Then, as Osthryth made to push the tansy into her hand, Bheatha gripped her wrist.

"In exchange, you will leave their company; go on the path you so desperately desire to tread - leave these people!"

"I want to..." ventured Osthryth, earnestly, the thought that she was with child roaming wildly in her head.

"Then do it!" Bheatha shouted, as Finn shrunk into her skirt. "To be a woman, you must work twice as hard as a man to be equal, and more so to triumph. You cannot have attachments if this is the path you choose, if you want to succeed. And you must bear the defeats with more strength than a man does." Osthryth shivered" and the woman loosed her grip.

"And yes, if you cannot choose chastity, the risk of a child will be your penalty."

She pushed her hand deep within her red-brown cloak, securing the last of Osthryth's silver, shaking her head as Osthryth examined the tansy.

"Take it in a morning; steep it in hot water, then drink it when it has cool - drink it all down. It will be painful, but quick."

And, before Osthryth could ask more of the heathen woman, Bheatha was gone, Finn in her wake, looking over his shoulder every so often as they pressed bare footprints into the sun-bathed sand.

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Osthryth did not make any decisions immediately based on the healer's words. She continued to work in the kitchens, and when she was required, took the children to the monastery for their education. Things felt normal, as if she were back at Dunnottar: a royal palace running to order in partnership with a monastery. Even now, as September eased by, the stores of grain and salted meat began to grow, just like harvest would around Dunnottar, or Glaschu or Bebbanburg.

Yet her mind would not forget Bheatha, her anger at the desecration of her ancestors, and the land that supported her people. But, it was happening throughout Eireann, throughout Alba and Northumbria, too. Waeleas was a pagan country melded to the oldest Christianity, and their ways: worship of water and hills and sun were testament to that. How much of the pagan - the old Brittonic life would survive now the Gaels and the Saxons doubled down in their efforts to eradicate it, to become more pious in the eyes of God, in the hope he would grant favour in battle over the Danes?

Often, when she had a quiet moment between taking the children and her tasks, Osthryth would remember the tansy root and flower, and she would clasp them, thinking of the healer's words: break away from the Gaels; follow your own path.

"You are here very early, or too late," he added. "Did you get locked in?" Osthryth took a step towards him, closing her hand tightly around the tansy.

Then, he saw a manuscript with a map on it - someone else must have been using it, and had not put it away. It was a map of the English kingdoms.

"I wished to learn I could about them," Osthryth said, trying to sound vague as Anndra scooped upthe parchment amd returned it its correct place.

"I didn't think it would hurt, as we are due here after dawn."

"Be careful: if the abbot had found you, he would have had you whipped: these are valuable and rare." Osthryth watched him as he continued to his job, which consisted of filling pots with water from a bucket he had brought in with him, before putting them next to the quills on the scholars' desks.

"You are good with your scholars," said, conversationally. "For a warrior."

"Warriors can be learned," Osthryth replied, mildly, thinking about how to leave without drawing too much attention to herself: if Anndra was awake, others would be too. She edged towards the cloister.

"I thought a monastery never slept, anyway," she added, repeating the young monk's words that he had told them all, proudly, a few days before.

Yes," he rallied, eyeing Tadgh's sword in her belt. "Have you always wanted to be a warrior?"

"Not always," Osthryth conceded (just a few more steps and she would be at the door - she could get to the guard room and across the courtyard, past Domnall and his troops and into the door at the back of the kitchen).

"Why a warrior?"

"I couldn't think to be anything else. It feels like I was meant to be one."

"That is like being a monk, but without the sword," he added, chuckling. "Trials of food, comfort, shelter, chastity, we all get closer to Him." Anndra was making his way back towards her now, filling more cups, before taking the water bucket and tgrowing it through the window, making the muddy courtyard even muddier.

"And what happens when yu are closer?" Osthryth asked, listening. Anddra turned to her, brightly, his voice full of joy.

"You hear. His words so clearly, like the sun shining through your very soul! Not the sun," Anndra frowned, "no, something much stronger." He looked at Osthryth.

"It is...exhilarating, fighting for your lord," Osthryth replied, matching Anndra's ebbulence. "War makes me forget any pain it causes...doubts vanish, and I am alone, with God, doing His will." She shifted her feet. Then, a little calmer, asked, "Did you always want to be a monk?"

"Me?" Anndra asked. "I wanted to be a farmer, like my father. But, the monastery sought more apprentices because of the raids from the Norse some years ago. Out of all the boys in my village, I was chosen to be educated, and to be a monk." He glanced to the floor.

"It wasn't long after that my village was sacked by Norse. My family were killed."

"Mine too," lied Osthryth, readying to trot out the worn-out story. "I was on pilgrimage with my family. We were at Culdees, in Pictland...Norse came and murdered the pilgrims, and a great deal of the monks. But, it was outside Dunnottar...King Aed was waitiig with his army. I saved Constantine's life."

"The prince?" Osthryth nodded, as Anndra recommenced his job of furnishing the table with objects - this time, he was putting new candles into the holders. Though tallow, new candles drew the soot up towards the ceiling and away from the manuscripts they were writing.

"I would have had to fight, if King Aed Findlaith had called me to, if I were a farmer. But I would not choose it. You? Did you want to be a monk?"

"Women have to be nuns, don't they?" Osthryth asked. "Or abbesses? In what way are they different? Or do they do the same as monks?" Anndra lowered the candle in his hand, thinking on her words.

"Only monks can touch the words of God," he said, slowly, stepping towards Osthryth, a confused expression on his face.

"Why? I have been touching them, for months."

"But you're a - " he frowned, confusion etched around his eyes. "You're a - "

"I'm a girl," Osthryth confirmed. "In body, not in soul, not in spirit. I am a warrior." She waited for Abndra to continue to work, but he was staring at her.

"A girl?" Osthryth nodded.

"You have - teats?" He approached Osthryth, amused, his hand outstretched, disbelievingly then, seeing the look on Osthryth's face, withdrew it, his face clouding, then jabbing a finger. "You? Women's teats feed the devil!"

"Are all babies devils, then?" Osthryth asked, thinking of Ailia, the serving girl, who was probably lying next to hers, allowing her nipple into her son's little mouth, giving him life-giving sustenance. "For that is all there is: a way to feed a child!" Then, she peeled off her tunic, seized his hand and put it firmly onto her left breast.

"It is a mound, a teat, to nourish young. You might say that a sow suckles the devil, or a mare."

Anndra's hand was cold, and he stared at his hand, as if it has was itself bedevilled. Then, as moisture seeped between his fingers, he drew it back, as if it was cursed.

They do that? Osthryth thought, as she stared at him, moisture dripping down her chest. Do all women's breasts expel milk as they grow? It seemed wasteful, if not for a babe.

And the ghost of a thought haunted the corners of her mind - was the heathen woman right?

A small cry escaped Anndra's lips, and Osthryth's thoughts evaporated as she loked at him urgently.

But, though he willed it, Anndra's face betrayed...not horror, no. Osthryth was trying to work out what the young monk, only a little older than her, was feeling when he drew up his cassock.

From his groin, a tentative erection sprang, as if afraid, shy. Osthryth tried not to laugh at Anndra's arousal, before grasping it in her hand, working him up and down, pulling back his foreskin a little before drawing it over the ever-growing heat and dampness of the tip.

Inevitably, a groan came from the young monk's mouth as Osthryth wanked him, until Anndra had decorated the tiled monastery floor with his ejaculate, his cock curling back in on itself as its hardness melted.

He looked at Osthryth wide eyed, darting to her face, and then to the floor, as if disbelieving what had just happened.

"You can do it yourself, too," Osthryth whispered, putting her tunic and jerkin back on.

"I have," Anndra confessed, looking into Osthryth's face. "But it has never felt like that."

Then, he gave her a smile, as if grateful, turned to go, then trod back hastily to her, seizing her lips with his own, pressing an urgent kiss to hers before dashing away

Corrupting the monks, that could be the next charge she could face, Osthryth thought, as she let herself out into the courtyard, the thump of Domnall's troops keeping rhythm, her mind thinking of the joy coursing through that young man's body.

Women's bodies could feel like that, Osthryth had once been told, by one of the older servants, but a man had to take his time. And when did men ever do that?

Osthryth hurried through the dark, musty kitchen to her own bed, wondering what Anndra would say to her tomorrow, when he let them into the chapter house.

But, little did she know, and little still the monastery, that a Norse raid would see the end of Anndra and so many of the scribes, as they mounted an attack on the palace.

But Osthryth's thoughts were not with war, but of the tansy secreted in her clothes, that she must use if Beatha was right and she truly was with child, be ready to do away with it, depart to Alba and find Uhtred.

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The day began as usual with matins sung, filtering through the palace's doors and windows.

As usual, Osthryth collected the children, walking across the courtyard to the monastery. As usual, they were met at the door by novice monk Anndra, who greeted the school and ushered them through the cloister to the manuscript room, unusually not meeting Osthryth's eye.

She was too tired to think about what they had done a few hours earlier, though the solidified evidence of his desire was still there, on the wooden floor. Instead, she helped MaelColm and Niall up onto the higher chairs as Mairi brought over the letters they were to copy out that morning.

Osthryth watched as Anndra pushed his way hurriedly through into the church, making a mental note to find him at another time to talk about what they had done, but he was pushed to one side as an older monk burst through, shouting quickly in Gaelish, too quickly for Osthryth.

But the room, which had been slowly filling with scribes was now in disarray. Another monk, the abbot's deputy, ushered them out, and called to the princesses too, who were standing close to the young princes, hands together.

"What is the matter?" Osthryth asked Mairi, as they, too hurried through into the monastery. The door which led to the Foyle's bank was open, and the monks poured through it, out into the daylight.

Osthryth pushed her way through. Then froze.

On the ridge, in line blocking the path to Lough Foyle, Norsemen stood, one long line of them, their brightly-painted shields in one hand and their swords, axes and cudgels in the other.

Just standing.

The monks had stopped themselves, out of fear, perhaps, or of confusion. The Northmen were doing nothing. But, it was clear what they were about to do.

The Norse and Danes in the area, Osthryth knew, were kin of Guthrum, who had been defeated at Ethandun, a battle that was rarely out of Osthruth's mind, for it pinned Uhtred at a definite time and place - a target.

As part of the peace, Guthrum was baptised, with Alfred as his godfather and, as King Aethelstan, Guthrum was now king of East Anglia. Alfred had secured his kingdom, and pacified the Danes by demarking the Saxon kingdoms.

A lone bang of weapon on oak shield brought Osthryth back to the present - the monks, ranging in front of their doors, were looking out onto the ridge, searching for the origin of the noise.

Next to her, the children started as tbe noise came again. Niall buried his head into Eira's dress. Mairi took the other two boys' hands in hers. Both Mael Dubh and Mael Duin looked terrified, as did Gormlaith, though she was fighting hard not to show it, yet her tall, thin frame quivered. They mustn't be here, Osthryth decided, and strode back into the monastery as ironware was passed between the monks: it was clear they were going to make their stand.

"Get the warriors!" Osthryth shouted, to the nearest monk, who stared at them all, that they were there.

"There is no time."

"Get what weapons you can, take anything sharp if you don't have enough." An image of that cold day, when she was feigning Constantine's identity appeared.

"They will expect you to charge at once," Osthryth told the monk, who was now focusing on the Northmen. "Go in row; take your time, do not let them surround you; do not let them drive you towards the river." The monk looked at Osthryth again, his thick, black eyebrows folded into a confused "V".

The bang came again, and this time, Gormlaith screamed. Both Mairi and Eira were trembling and the boys looked too terrified to make any sound at all.

"Tell them! Tell them all!" Osthryth said, as the words of the Lord's Prayer in Latin drifted over the monastic heads like autumn mist.

Then, beginning the Prayer, but in the Gaelush tongue, Osthryth led the children across the church and out through tbe guardroom door. The courtyard was just in front of them. What she needed was for the children to go in an orderly manner, else their panic would encourafe the Norse to raid the palace earlier than they might, and the warriors would not be ready.

She looked across the courtyard, spying that the kitchen doors were open. The slaves, busy with their morning tasks, had stopped. If there were to be a raid, slaves were usually taken, for their value in labour, and they might get a better deal slavibg for a new master. Not that they had any choice about it.

But the Norse did not, as Bheatha had said, force paganism onto people like the Gaels did with Christianity. If any of the slaves were pagan, or worshipped different gods, the Norse would not care.

"Gormlaith," Osthryth spoke calmly to the older girl, who moved her long neck and looked at her. Osthryth pointed to the kitchens. "Take the children; carry Mael Dubh and Eira -" the dark haired princess looked to Osthryth, her pale eyes looking older, somehow, "You carry Mael Duin. Mairi must keep Niall in hand. Walk slowly back to the palace and hide in the cellars. Lock yourselves in if necessary."

Then Osthryth bent her head and whispered close to Mairi's ear, "for they will take as slaves who they can, and ravage and kill those they can't, then burn down the palace and monastery." Mairi jerked her head to look at Osthryth, alarm in her eyes, but she said nothing. "If you are locked in, and there is a fire, that stone room where the food and ale is kept will protect you, until the Norse have left, at the very least." The girl nodded, gravely.

None of Osthryth's meaning was lost on the princess, and she suddenly felt proud of the younger girl, who turned and straightened her dress, before straightening Niall's clothes and brushing off any dirt (always a difficult job with Niall), just as if they were about to go into church.

"Walk as if you are in prayer, and - " Osthryth turned at the crunch under foot of leaves behind her. It was Anndra, a sharp scribe-staff in his hand, usually used for pointing out the letters in a manuscript. He was going to use that, Osthryth scorned silently.

He looked at Osthryth, a slight pink to his cheeks and was about to speak, when Osthryth laid a hand on his arm. He looked at it, then back to her.

"Did you hear what I told the children?" He nodded.

"So," Osthryth concluded, "Anndra will lead you to the kitchens; you will follow behind him as if you are in Sunday progress in the monastery church."

"And after, we get dinner?" asked Niall, his clean-on-today breeches already filthy at the knees.

"Dinner, for good boys who can walk in prayer," Osthryth laughed, trying to make light of it all. "Balaich mhath!"

Then, Osthryth turned back to Anndra. He was still holding his slave stick, looking at Osthryth fixedly.

"What is needed is for them to walk," Osthryth said, "as if they have just learned from the scriptures a most rapturous thing, silently, and with reverence." She leaned close to Anndra, her warm breath on his ear.

"One scream and the game is up." She pointed back to the library room. "Take your parchments if you must - in fact, even better, carry them so the boys can see you with them, as the abbot does."

A minute passed as the group assembled, although for Osthryth it seemed like an hour. The battle noise was rising, though no-one would be fighting yet, the noise made by the Norse, loud and fierce rhythmical banging on their shields would be enough to terrify most of the monks.

And yet, now, a song was being sung, low, persistent, like a battle horn of war. The holy men wete singing together, and it sounded as terrifying as the Norse's beating.

And, once they were away, Osthryth withdrew the sword Taghd had given her, found her battle stance, shifting the blade in her grip, before walking back through the monastic church of Saint ColmCille as the monks charged up the hill.

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It took some minutes for the warriors to appear, through the courtyard and then fan out around both sides of the monastery, joining in the battle at both periphery.

Behind them, mirroring the Norse flag of a hammer and lightning bolt, Domnall's cross clutched in a red handed fist stood out proud and clearly in the morning sunlight.

Osthryth did not see Domhnall at first; he had taken his warriors to the rear of the monks, spreading out and taking strategic positions behind the monks, who though valiantly fighting, were little match for the Northmen, who were cutting through rows of men like a knife through butter.

Finding a place to fight, where the line of Norse looked weaker, Osthryth ran at the battle line, stopping short of the shield wall, before sweeping up a part-broken Norse shield, pushing her arm through the back of it and holding fast, as monks surged past her, and were met with weapons and death.

Some monks, clearly trained to fight, held back, and a line formed by several of them. The only way to fight was to hold a line, even a part line, and weaken the enemy before making a move to attack and kill - this was the first thing Ceinid had taught her, and drilled in her when she trained, back when Aed was king of the Picts and before Domhnall and Constantine had to flee to exile.

Even now, a tall, thick-haired youth of a Norseman had Osthryth in his sights, to try to misfoot her or goad her into charging on. Osthryth managed to twist away and raise the pommel end of Taghd's sword, jabbing it towards his face, which was, as usual for a Northman, unprotected.

At the same time, a surge of monks screaming almost as loudly as the Norse as they charged at the left of the line caused some dusruption. That section was less disciplined than the rest - it was clear the Northmen had concentrated many inexperienced fighters there. A clatter of metal on wood caused several Norse to go down.

Another one before her, Osthryth thought, as the young Northman's attention was drawn for a second. Just enough time for Osthryth to pull the handle of the axe he was holding from his fingers.

The Norse roared as in delight as the monks, untrained and leaderless, met their end to Osthryth's right, where the best warriors were positioned: stoic, steady, willing to wait until their enemy was weak before attacking the line, holding, and then massacring the monks.

But where she was, Osthryth's attack was not enough to break through, not when untrained men were meeting disciplined warriors. The young Norseman, though disarmed, was not defeated; she could not break through to give the monks who were being smashed either side of her a chance.

The Norseman, angry at his mistake as his weapon lay now in the dirt somewhere, forced himself down to hold the line, trying to reach around and grasp the handle of Taghd's sword. Osthryth tried to hold fast on ground that was becoming slippery with blood as the man's fingers now added to it: a man behind, with a cudgel, had smashed the young boy, and he was sinking down Osthryth's body, anguished cries accompanied desperately groping fingers, as if begging her for life.

She stepped over his form, as she picked up her head: here was the gap, she told herself - she had to be quick or the line would reform and her chance would be lost.

A blow to her back made Osthryth start and she paused as monks - clearly more experienced than those beneath their feet - took advantage of the breach of the shield wall. Pain lanced up Osthryth's back and into base of her skull as she twisted her body away - her old injury from Tara amplifying the blow.

A smash of ironware drew Osthryth's breath and she turned to face the Norse again. The breach was widening as more Norse were holding back, for what reason, Osthryth did not know: retreat was an anathema to them. The boy, though injured, was not dead. He wobbled, his legs struggling to hold him upright. He grasped the lower edge of his helmet with one hand, adjusting it, and Osthryth caught sight of a shadow at the base of his neck. His sword had cut the man after all. Not fatally, but he had drawn blood.

Another roar, this time from her left, and now, the monks, shouted and screamed a war cry of their own, charging for the Norse again. Osthryth looked back to where her wounded opponent lay.

Except he wasn't. Staggering back and gripping all he had brought to fight with him, the young man gripped his axe with both hands and charged, baring his teeth bared in a feral grin, ready to enjoy what was about to be the end of her.

But he was wrong: Osthryth's hand found the end of the axe and managed to pull it free from his grip. The boy's face changed from one of anticipatory triumph to the horror of knowing he was to meet his doom.

The axe swept back up and Osthryth darted to his left, sweeping the bloody weapon up to slam its handle against the the boy's face. But it missed, instead, ricoched off the arm of a monk by her side, who crumpled down to her right.

She took the advantage, lunging forward as the boy slipped on the monk's blood, which had made the damp earth slippy. It was what Osthryth needed. Taghd's sword came up, then thrust down through his ribs, and he slumped forward at her feet.

A shout came from behind her as she scooped up the axe, just in time for the next row of Norse to seep into the gaps of the front line, the keen youngsters and those in punishment position, there for a wrongdoing, having borne the brunt of the monks' ferocity.

But these were the elite Norse, tall, mighty, determined that today was the day the land of Doire was to be theirs.

Yet, behind her, Osthryth knew, Flann Sinna would have mobilised his army, Donnchada leading the main fighting force, Domhnall with Feargus and Taghd, and Domnall, with his red handed banner fighting with all his might next to his usurper for the land that was once his father's.

Oh yes, they were behind her, but the Norse were in front, long, braided hair shining in the morning's sunlight as they bore down in groups onto the Uí Néills, and their fine hair was probably the last most would see as their guts were spilt on Saint Columba's earth.

And now, one was before her, axe raised, ready to cut her down. Fast, she must he fast. A woman must be nimble to be a warrior, for she could not match a man for strength, Ceinid had taught her that; Domhnall had, too.

Yet, she was slower than she once had been - why?

Dodging left, Osthryth was drawn by the laugh of a Norseman to another, clapping him on the back as he failed again to end her. "Ragnar! You can do better than that!"

"If only, Cnut!" the warrior called Ragnar complained, then turned to make a concerted effort to smash Osthryth again, snapping his right hand out, fist driving into Osthryth's throat.

She'd had worse, but the blow made her throat close. Gagging, she felt her grip on the axe loosen. The Norseman hit her again, and she barely managed to tuck her chin down. His fist scraped across her jaw—once, twice.

Osthryth stumbled back. The man's blow had less energy as she had expected, yet Ragnar the Norseman pressed his advantage further, pounding Osthryth with short jabs. They weren't terribly powerful hits, but the flurry of punches kept her off balance, forcing her to retreat.

To her left, two monks pressed forward into the space Osthryth left, beaten down with two strokes by the Norseman Cnut. But it was enough to allow Osthryth to see a chance: her opponent, still pushing forward, hitting her around the face, was covered from head to foot with boiled leather and close-fitting mail, but it did not cover the entirety of the palms. At the base of the hand there was a patch of exposed skin. As long as the Norseman held a weapon, it wasn't vulnerable, but without one …

As the Norseman punched her again, Osthryth jabbed upward with the Tadhg's sword, held at close quarters, shoving the point into the base towards the man's hand with all of her strength. The Norseman's fist cocked at a strange angle. Osthryth felt the knife grind against bone, and she shoved and twisted the blade.

The Norseman roared with pain and Osthryth caught a flash of the whites of the man's eyes as her target hit home, before twisting it and pulling back.

"Let me finish him, son of Ragnar!" Cnut insisted, pushing Ragnar aside. Osthryth stumbled back, dropping the axe. Cnut the Norseman looped his left arm around the Osthryth's right, pinning her elbow against her side.

Osthryth, moaning and spitting, threw her weight against the Norseman, a desperate attempt to overwhelm the man, but Cnut dropped his hips and twisted his body around as he swept her right leg back.

Osthryth tried to stop the throw, but she was too off balance. She was about to fly off his feet but, the dall didn't come.

What did come was a thrust to the side: a monk had joined their battle. It was Anndra. Osthryth got one fleeting glance towards him, his eyes focused on attacking Cnut, who was still holding onto her arm, causing all three to come tumbling down.

They crashed to the ground, and there was a bone-snapping crunch as Anndra's elbow twisted too far in the wrong direction.

Cnut rolled off Anndra as Osthryth, having just rolled away, missing the full weight of the Norseman, the roar of battle filling her ears again.

Crouching, she warily regarded her downed opponent while her right hand tried to explore a painful gash in her back, just where it had healed from her fight at Tara: her hand came away red with blood. She staggered tok her feet: she could still fight.

Unlike Anndra.

The monk whom she had pleasured was struggling to turn over, but his brain hadn't quite realized how useless his right arm was. His back had been gouged by Cnut's axe and his elbow was bent at a hideous angle.

But she had little time to contemplate: ahead of her, the Norseman, Ragnar, was reeling around for another blow. Tightening her grip on Taghd's sword, she approached him. Ragnar fell into an easy stance, axe held ready, exchanging jovial words with Cnut, who was fighing a fierce battle now over Anndra's body with a heavy-set, older monk who was matching the Norseman blow by blow in front of him, hammer raised.

Osthryth circled back so Ragnar's axe-swing only just missed her

He shuffled, shifting to keep Osthryth in front of him when, out of her eye's periphery, Domnall's red hand clutching cross told her that his men'at least, had the advantage, onthe side opposite the Foyle.

Yet, Osthryth knew as much as they had gained ground up here, and equal, if not greater quantity of men, had their backs to the river and were bei g forced into it, being cut down as they went. Despite being exhausted, Osthryth steeled herselfagainst another blow from Ragnar.

The Norseman held himself with an easy confidence, assured in the superiority of his weapons and armour. His reach was longer than Osthryth's; he had no reason to attack first. Osthryth would have to get in closer to use Taghd's sword and, during that time, the Norseman would have every chance to use his axe.

Ragnar and Cnut were laughing, however, swapping easy exchanges which, to Osthryth, sounded like friendly motivation to drive one another on.

Arrogance is good, Osthryth thought. It will make him slow down.

Ragnar, almost sensing her deduction, leaped forward, his axe dashing it against Osthryth's neck. It was a marvellously delivered blow, the weight of the Norseman's body behind it and, like Cnut's studded cudgel-work on another monk to her right, should have taken her head clean off.

But Osthryth was faster, and she weaved to the left, the blade scraping her neck, a bleeding wound.

"Haaaaa!" Ragnar the Norseman raged, at her survival, and Osthryth thought of the battle, two years before, where she wore Constantine's mail and fought as him, shaming him, but keeping him alive. Would he have been fighting that day? Or would Domhnall and Muire have kept the heir to the Dal Riadan and Pictish thrones away from the field?

Domhnall had defeated Ivar the Boneless that day, as the Norseman had tried to drive home an attack like this man's: he never had made it, and neither did Ragnar.

Because something had made the Norse fighters stop and turn. A sound which rippled up Osthryth's spine, stopping her head, as if a tgousand beasts were in their death-agonies; as if all the Bean-Sidhe of the whole of Eireann had risen and were writhing in the air all around them.

Yet, she knew what was causing it: it was no wonder some of the Norse had stopped fighting, why sone were looking to the heavens, to the river, to the sea.

It was the battle-cry of the Dal-Riadans, of Domhnall, and of Donnchada, a cry of bellowing energy, whoo-hoo-hooing in their attack. And they were attacking fast. At the rear of the lines, where the vulnerable, where the weaker warriors were positioned, the attacks were coming. Osthryth couldn't see who or from where, but the Norse were bunching into groups, retreating from the monks, who were still continuing to attack.

Osthryth stopped, bracing herself for Ragnar the Norseman to turn back and continue his attack, but instead he raced away, engaging the Irish who were fighting with...Osthryth strained to see...

...it was Domhnall, with Constantine at his side, and around them, Irish under the banner of a red, right hand, palm-facing on a yellow field, such as Osthryth had seen in the illuminations that Muire had shown her at Kells. She had seen it in a banner again, at Tara, over the Hill of the Hostages: it was the Ulaid.

Their cry did not diminish as they fought the Norse; rather it sustained and broke around the ridge on which they were fighting, rolling around the air as if itself alive and part of them. Presumably, though they were the Uí Néill's bitterest rivals, they had usited against an overarching enemy. And, it looked as if that decision was paying off: they were winning.

The monks continued their advance behind them, surging uphill, over the bodies of their dead. But Osthryth did not advance. Instead, her thoughts turned to the children, who she had sent to safety in the kitchens' cellars. Had they got there? She had to know.

Stumbling back down the hill, parrying an attack from a young Norse boy barely older than she was, before sticking him clean in the guts as he wpuld just not clear out of her way, Osthryth tore towards the palace.

"The children!" She shouted in Gaelish to the guards, who had drawn in the ramparts around the courtyard. "Let me pass!" Her yell was to the household guard, who were the royal family's last line of defence should the Norse have broken through the line of defence, which they very nearly had. "It's me, Osthryth!" she added, waving the sword belonging to Taghd.

But, this was a mistake. From the wooden cross-sections one of Flann Sinna's men, hugely-built, black, curly hair on both sides of his wide face launched himself at her. Behind him, Osthryth's brain registered what she sought, however - Muire wss leading the children, unharmed, holding each other's hands, into the palace.

That was just before he guard tried to fight her. Instead, Osthryth, her job done, crumpled at the knees and fainted.

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It was Flann Sinna's eldest son, the massively-built, flame-haired Donnchada before whom Osthryth knelt, in the throne room of the palace, three days after a decisive rout of the Norse from the lands of Doire.

The Norse would be back, there was no doubt about that. But it proved to them, and to any other Irish rival house that the Uí Néills were mighty and were formidable, even without the help of the Ulaid.

The children had been safe, that was her last thought, and while the guard had made to pierce her body with his sword when she collapsed before the ramparts, the two slaves given the job of guarding the rest had ran at him, pushing him off and bringing her inside.

Osthryth had sustained wounds: a shoulder injury, making her original one worse and cuts by her throat and arms, painful but not lethal.

Muire had sent Aila had been sent to treat her with "lus an torranain", a balm made of figwort, whose red-brown flowers grew by beaches near Bebbanburg Osthryth knew, and whose pungent odour she recognised from the men injured in her uncle's army. Tadhg, too, had been to see her, his own shoulder wounded, his head cut so that a good portion of his fair hair was missing.

It would grow again, he laughed, when Osthryth put her hand up from the brown woollen blanket which Ailie had wrapped around her, touching his temple with her fingers, and he took her hand as recounted how they had watched the monks' defence of their monastery, dedicated to the blessed Saint Columba, and they had watched her, too.

"I thought you were terrific," Taghd told her, when she brushed away Domhnall's praise of her. 'Never be afraid to show it - warriors have much to boast about." He bent to kiss the back of her hand, the rest of his long hair spilling over his face as Osthryth glowed that her lord was pleased with her.

And it was true: she had held her own against the Norse warriors, against Ragnar and Cnut, and against those puppy-like boys eager to fight and gain prestige in battle and who she had cut down, some easily, some not so.

Domhnall, later, wet with blood and perspiration, had told her to recover and let the servants treat her, but before she could rejoin Feargus and Taghd in Domhnall's company; before she could discover much about the rear attack on the Norse or the plans Domhnall had to return over the water, or indeed, boil water to imbible the lily root - an act which was just a process now, a thing to do to get rid of the lethargy and restore her strength - Constantine had found her out to tell her the king sought her presence.

He looked how she felt: battered face with a gash down one side of his face and an injury to his leg which looked as if it had been caused by a low, back-swiping sword blow. But he was elated, and told her that it had been Prince Domnall's strategy to hold back a good proportion of the men, and while the Norse had expected some sort of strike, it was more than enough to lay a great deal of their second row - their elite - down to the mud.

And, they had lost no royalty: Domhnall and all of his guard still lived; the Queen was unharmed, for the Norse had never made it down the hill to test the ramparts' reinforcements, and the chikdren had done as she had said.

Domnall and Donnchada, now stepbrothers, now at a peace that suited the Uí Néill - probably at the command of the High - working together, for once, had made a great show of their force and, with the Ulaid, had been enough to rout the field of the Norse.

"But they'll be back," Constantine commented, happily, before giving Osthryth the news that her presence was required.

"When?"

"Now." And Constantine had waited for her, watching her pull on her clothes before escorting her to the throne room, before she had time to ask about the children, or indeed the Ulaid.

The king had not been present but, Muire had been, standing beside her step-son with her other two sons, Domnall and Niall, at her side.

What was it they wanted? The question darted like a minnow through Osthryth's brain, and a feeling of panic began to build, as she stood there in the ever-increasing moments of silence. Had they discovered that she had pleasured Anndra? Was her pregnancy discovered?

But Donnchada, who had looked across her short, golden hair, that which he himself had taken - and which Osthryth had taken care to maintain to embed the idea of her warriorness - who sat before her. Feeling that it was necessary, Osthryth kneltand bowed her head.

"You have proved yourself," Donnchada said, his voice warm and, for once, was smiling. "You kept the children safe; you schemed to make them calm and put them in a place few men would have dreamed to look. The boys would most certainly have been killed if they had remained at the monastery, and the girls taken for whores. We owe you our deepest gratitude."

The prince took a step towards her l, hand outstretched to help her to her feet. Osthryth took his warm hand and felt herself smile.

"My father away to the Ulaid to discuss terms of a potential treaty, such was our victory against the Northmen, or he would be here to give you this." He returned her smile.

Osthryth watched as, in the morning sunlight, glancing through the wooden window-holes, its light played on a blade. Not just any blade, but the one she had won at the competition at Tara.

She flicked a glance across to Domnall who, for once, did not glare foully at her, for it had been his man she had beaten; Domnall who she had shamed, and he had almost avenged himself in her on that night had his new step-brother not intervened.

"They attack because of hunger," Donnchada continued, and Osthryth realised she had not been listening to the Prince. "My father's strategy against the Northmen and rid them from Eireann is to deprive them of trade and only deal with Christians. He is to recognose King Cineál as the King of the Ulaid territories and desist his claim for their lands in return for Cineál's desistance in claims on Emain Macha."

Clearly, this information was for her and Constantine's benefit, for both Queen Muire and Domnall looked impassive. So, a ceasefire of both warfare and territory claims while they combined their forces to starve out the Norse? She supposed it could work. Yet, from what she had seen of Cineál's sons and what they were capable of, on the beach, losing her father's sword preventing them from castrating Constantine, a lot of historic enmity would have to be put to one side.

Besides, would Domhnall and Constantine be here too? Or Domnall for that matter? Would they be recommencing their own blood-feud against King Eochaid and Giric the Usurper? And a second thought struck - what of the pagans, the heathens Bheatha and little Finn? They were no Christians. Were they to be starved out too?

"Again, we thank you," Donnchada said, his hair orange as his father's catching the light as he held it out the sword to her. Osthryth took it, looking at it as a mother might her infant. Beautifully inlaid with garnets as the scabbard was, it was nothing to the blade, whose steel, beaten over and over by a blacksmith who knew his trade, who had formed wavy patterns like a stormy sea through it. Though she hated to admit it, the sword was better quality than her father's had been.

"Buaidh," she said quietly, echoing the words she had heard on the hill, as the keenimg faded to nothing - "buaidh-buaidh-buaidh!" Victory! Victory! Victory!

And "Victory" she was. Donnchada burst in to the same hearty laughter as Flann Sinna so often did.

"We have a name!" He declared, his mirth filling up the throne room. "The warrior has declared its name!" He clapped her on the back, before adding that the Uí Néills were happy to have warriors such as Osthryth.

Yet, Osthryth thought to herself, as she strode next to Constantine, towards the stables, to see Domhnall at last, her mind filled with Ethne and Finnolai. She was useful to the Irish Gaels; Ethne had not been - she was in the way of Flann Sinna and High Kingship. Yet, she was their kin. And Domhnall had been forced to lose his lover in exchange for support to reclaim the Gaelish and Pictish thrones. Their lives were nothing to the royal family, except for use or to discard.

"Mairi was brilliant," Contstantine told Osthryth as they paced through the mud of the courtyard. "She sang to the children; fed them, saw them to bed. She even covered the doorswith fleeces to muffle any noise they made. Eira too," he added.

And, for the first time in a long time, Constantine's beaming face seemed, in that autumn evening's sunlight, to glow. Perhaps he was now, thought Osthryth, accustomed to his future, accepting of his marriage, and that of his cousin.

As they got to the light of the stables, lit with lanterns at the one end, Osthryth turned quickly as she heard footsteps. Constantine turned too and they both looked at the figure of Prince Domnall, who must have followed them from the throne room and who now looked between both of them.

Osthryth found her hand was twitching down towards "Buaidh". He looked at Osthryth, a strange expression on his long, pale face, before waving his arm towards her sword.

"It was well deserved," he declared, nodding towards her. "You fought better than some of the men I have in my army. For a woman."

"I am not a woman, I am a warrior," Osthryth replied, impassively.

"You look like a woman from where I'm standing, so ye are," he retorted.

"Pity you had to have four men hold me down to find out!" Osthryth's hand curled around her sword hilt. The metal was cold against the warmth of her palm, and she could just so easily bring it out, naked, and take the young man's life for what he had tried to do to her.

Constantine, sensing her anger, took a step towards his cousin to stand between them.

And then Osthryth loosed Buaidh. She realised that Domnall's expression was not a hostile one. It was what she had once seen in Ceinid's eyes, and Domhnall's face, though never in Constantine's. The Uí Néill prince was looking at her with respect. She loosed Buidhe and, in her mind, pity replaced defence.

"Donnchada was in a good mood, considering he lost so many Midhe men," he opined, as Osthryth considered the prince again, and a pang of sorrow caught her throat. Domnall had been the heir to throne, but his mother had remarried Flann Sinna to solidify the northern amd southern Uí Néill.

His whole life had changed; his sister had been enslaved for the good of his family, for she had been Flann's first wife. If she had lived, her presence would have factioned the Uí Néill, rather than united them. The Norse would have won and the palace and the monastery would have been a smoky ruin.

"Not as many as we thought," Domnall replied, stepping past Constantine and continuing towards the stables. Osthryth followed, as did Constantine. Clearly, he was still set on going with Domhnall. "But considering what his father's done, it's a wonder he can smile at all: he is very fond of his sister."

"Considering...Gormliath...?" Constantine's sentence trailed to nothing.

"You mean you don't know?" At the pine-slatted door of the stables, Domnall paused in the act of pushibg it open. Behind him, horses at rest hmmppphhhd and snorted at the minor disturbance. He grinned, but there was no humour in it.

"Dangerous ground, that's what King Flann is treading," Domnall continued. "The king of Munster, a man who has been our loyal ally for so long had wanted her not a year ago for his bride: Flann refused. And now..." He eyed Constantine as if his cousin was having him on, and he knew really.

"You really don't know?"

"What?"

"She is to marry the younger of

Cineál's sons." He shook his head, bitterly. "You know of whom I speak, Constantine," he added.

Osthryth knew too. They had nearly caught her too, and do heaven knows what. Oh, she would have fought them, but they would have offered no mercy, and she suspected they would have enjoyed making her die slowly. Osthryth looked at Constantine, who nodded.

"They are southern Ui Neill; they don't understand about the Ulaid - the years of trouble, of taking out livestock, our women, the perpetual war of belligerance. Willing to give over his daughter like - " Domnall broke off, and turned his head. Then, looking into the stables, strode into it.

No wonder Gormlaith looked unwell, Osthryth thought. She would know about the Ulaid; heard the stories. It would be the younger of the two men who had harrassed them that would be her husband. Could she stop it, and help the poor girl? She closed her eyes momentarily. No. It was too big for her, the diplomacy, the treaty between two long-standing enemies. If she tried, all of this, her battle prowess, her warrior status, her position serving Domhnall, would all disintegrate and diffuse like autumn mist, and she would be treated like any other traitor. She could not bear the look on Domhnall's face if it came to that.

"You are coming to Alba with us?" Constantine hissed, as Feargus got to his feet from his position next to Taghd on the straw in the last stall, pushing ale towards them.

"Yes," hissed back Domnall, "But as of tonight, I will be acting as if I want nothing at all to do with my cousin's war; I'll be acting my usual self." He drank from the wooden tankard.

"I do hope not," Osthryth muttered. It came out louder than she expected, and Domnall turned to look at her, breaking into a grin. He clapped her on the back, and laughed.

"The taste of victory!" He declared, then smashed is tankard against Constantine's. "Sláinte!"

"Slàinte mhath!" Constantine replied, which was echoed by a voice behind them. Domhnall, a grin as wide as Lough Foyle's bay.

The warriors sat, and drank for a while, exchanging battle stories, gruesome and gory and terrifying. Osthryth listened, and added several of her own, including Ragnar and Cnut, who may have been defeated by Domhnall's men, or the monks, or may not. She tried to ignore that she had fainted outside the palace, but Domnall brought it into the conversation, almost deliberately Osthryth thought, and she steeled herself not only to take the lily root as soon as ever she could but to be very careful trusting Domnall. While he may have some respect for her as a warrior, she sensed some resentment, the shame of not being able to punish her by rape at Tara, or having to accept her as an equal under Domhnall now he decided to join his cousin's cause in Alba and was glad when Constantine changed the conversation.

For, by joining with his cousin, he was accepting the unspoken levelness that warriorship brought: he was equal to Taghd and Feargus, and to Osthryth. They were unshakeably loyal to one another and would go to lengths to protect and help one another, if they were cornered in battle, for example. Perhaps Prince Domnall was finding equality to Osthryth difficult to take.

"When do you plan that we leave?" he asked Domhnall.

"Imminently. I have had word from Ceinid that they seek to retire this season's fighting by Samhain." This was not uncommon - wars were rarely fought in the winter, but often stretched into November. That Eochaid and Giric had chosen to retire earlier suggested that those loyal to the old king Aed, and to Domhnall, using hit and run tactics to deplete them of supplies and resources, were succeeding, and had worn down the King of Strathclyde.

Osthryth inagined him in his palace in the green hollow, where they had sat and been welcomed - before realising it was a trap - discussing plans, both knowing Domhmall would be coming to reclaim his father's throne, and coming strong and hard in proportion to their treachery.

As she listened to the plan, of joining with Ceinid and Domhnall's army at Dunadd, her mind drifted to her brother: she must go with them, back to Pictland, for it would be far easier to get to Wessex on the same land than Eireann.

And it was at that moment she realised: maybe finding Uhtred was not her main priority: she was a warrior here; she had a lord, and could fight. All memory of Bebbanburg and her flight from Aelfric, her uncle, was far from her mind.

Would Uhtred even want to know her, or believe she was his sister? And, even then, would Beocca force her into a marriage?

Her hand reached down to Buidhe and made a silent oath on its patterned handle: she was Domhnall's warrior; she had earned her place. She would stand on winter ground and face the Strathclyde Cymric and the Pictish hostile to the Àlpin family.

For as long as he wanted her, Osthryth was Domhnall mac Álpin's warrior. She would not run to Wessex; she would stay by her king's side.

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If Osthryth had looked up to the sky the next morning, as she rounded the head of land above the Foyle estuary, she would have noticed there was something very wrong with the sun.

Drinking had gone on to the early hours of the morning, and stories of war had given way to stories of women they had humped, or would hump, or wanted to hump.

Ale then heralded the stories, of the Sidhe told carefully by Taghd and Feargus recounted a tale from Pictland, of King Breidi's revenge for Oswiu's massacre, his trap for the Northumbrian king at Dun Nechtain in deepest Fortriu on the Feast Day of Saint Ceadd.

Osthryth knew the story, how her ancestor Ecgfrith's army fought Breidi, who had trapped them on the hill at Nechtan, adjacent the loch at Dunachton. Ecgfrith took his army up a hill to fight a Pictish warband, and were trapped with his back to the loch, whereupon Breidi surrounded the hill with the remainder of his army.

"And Breidi spat at his cousin for the Great Massacre!" Feargus had drawled, raising his tankard, "and ran the Anglian bastard through from stomach to spine!"

Feargus told the story with relish, about Ecgfrith's defeat and rout from the Pictish lands to the river Tuide while the royals roared with triumph and cheered at the slaughter while teasing Osthryth for being an Angle.

"My mother was of Cumbraland!" Osthryth protested, sleepily. "I am not an Angle!"

"But you are a Northumbrian bratling!" Domhnall said, affectionately, and it was he who saw her safe to the kitchens, where she had promised Muire she would always sleep.

And it had been before dawn she had risen and carefully taken hot water that the cook was about to use to boil up bones from the recently slaughtered livestock for broth. She had ladled it out into a stoneware jar dissolving the grated root in it before drinking it down in one go in the corner of the kitchen behind the rush screens that partitioned the kitchens in summer.

It was bitter and Osthryth had paused, panting, with the liquid half drunk, before wiping her mouth on her sleeve and swigging the rest. And then, in the darkness she crept past the guards and hurried past the monastery. She needed to be back for the children; she needed to be far away from the palace when it happened.

The morning was not a misty one, though it was October. The air was crisp and clear and, as she trod the sandy track next to the river, it did not occur to Osthryth that the sun did not seem to be rising.

Low beams of light radiated past her as she stood on the cliff, an hour later, which overlooked Lough Foyle. She should get down there, Osthryth thought, she should be near the sea when it happened, so the water could take it all away.

The sun's weak rays lit on the stones that acted as a steep path to the beach, and seemed to ooze across the flat, wide strand, as if held back, hindered in its progress. There were no clouds, ad to Osthryth's mind, dawn seemed to be getting weaker, not stronger.

She stopped and pressed her back against the cliff when she had descending, for an insistent discomfort was increasing and decreasing in a regular pattern around her hips. Osthryth breathed deeply.

She had wondered about the abortificant, the eradication of the germ of life growing inside her. She had felt no quickening, no evidence of an actual child and...even if she had, she would still have, God help her, done it. Yet, nearly two hours after taking it, she'd felt nothing. Until now.

Now, the pain was acute, and insisent, causing her to catch her breath and hold onto the cliff wall to brace herself against the pain. Liquid began to ooze down her leg, and it trickled into her boots and onto the sand. It was blood. There was no going back.

A sharp pain struck ger lower abdomen, and she cried out, gripping at the rock and she pulled off her boots and breeches, staggering towards the sea. The salt water would help, that she knew, and as the sky grew gradually darker, and the pain grew increasingly intense, Osthryth passed blood-streaked matter into the sea, while the ice-cold water stung her legs.

Each time the pain came, she was compelled to push against it, each time more furious than the last, until the pain receded, then began again. Each time, Osthryth thought she could not bear another.

When the pain finally started to diminish, Osthryth stretched out in the cold, refreshing water. She felt it cleansing her, refreshing her, and the weak morning sunlight on the ocean seemed to absorb some of its coldness. She looked at the sun's outline, which seemed strange reflected off the blue-green water.

When cleansing was replaced by coldness in her arms and legs, Osthryth waded out of the water, seaweed clinging to her thigh. What had been most shocking was it was over so quickly, yet the pain, worse than her monthly bleeding, was far less than she had on any battlefield.

Using the seaweed, channelwrack and gutweed and orache, she began to pack it between her legs so that the viscose fluid which was flowing out of her sore cunt would, with luck, begin to clot before wading back out of the ebbing sea. Shadows were beginning to form, around the rocks from which the moon was pulling the sea, and Osthryth sat, knees up and apart, supporting herself on her elbows as she breathed deeply and heavily.

It had been a lot of blood, left behind for the sea creatures to eat, a lot of blood and tissue. Yet, what she had produced was not a child, was not a baby. You couldn't be sinful if the child was merely germ, and not formed. Beatha had been right: if she was to be a warrior - and she was - the only path to that was chastity.

After a time of staring out to sea thinking of nothing, Osthryth realised the pain was increasing again, and she braced herself for it. When it came, a sensation to push came also, and the soft, spongy weed soon becme saturated again.

Dragging it from her body, Osthryth made her way to the shoreline. The tide had gone out a lot further than she thought it would have, and she rolled onto her knees and pulled herself to her feet before loping heavily towards the water's edge and casting the sopping weed as far as she could, before stooping to clulean her arm and her wrist.

How could a germ of life produce so much blood? It was no wonder she had felt exhausted, and she decided to try to steal some meat as soon as she was able, to restore her strength.

It will be worth it, she told herself: you are a warrior, Osthryth told herself as she scooped up more weed and wrung it between her hands. You can't have a child about you, nor risk birthing one.

It was getting difficult to see the weed in her hands as she spught to shape it before pushing it between her legs. Why was it darker than it had been, when it should be getting lighter?

She looked up and scanned the sky: no cloud; no mist. But, the shape of the morning sun...it was not as it should be. It looked as if a small section of it had disappeared.

Was this the end of the sun, as Taghd had told, of the sun-god Bel destroying the world? She glanced up again: it was clear. The sun had lost a part of itself and the world was darkening.

Her instinct was to get to her breeches and boots as soon as possible, to get back to Doire as soon as she could and make pretence that she had merely been searching for the children for their lesson but for the sun.

And, in her haste, Osthryth realised all too late that she had been followed.

Two figures, coming from the cliff path, were heading towards her. There was no mistake that she was their destination, for there was nothing on the strand, such as a fishing boat, and they hurried as she hurried to dress, her gut guessing who they were, and her brain hoping against hope that she was wrong.

Osthryth took up Buaidh in her damp, sandy hand. The figure with his index finger missing loomed ahead of his brother, Faedersword held by the other four.

"King Flann is negotiating a treaty," Osthryth blurted out. She nodded in the direction of the younger, black-haired Ulaid prince. "You are to marry his daughter." She needed to negotiate; her strength for a fight was low. But she suspected she would have to anyway.

"Southern Uí Neíll!" Spat Ninefingers. "They have their infinite war with Leinster! They do not know that you, Uí Néill, your ancestors began this war! And, I am going to have my revenge!" He raised Faedersword.

"Recognise this?" Osthryth said nothing. She had long given up hope of getting it back, and though it had been her father's, it wasn't hers any more. She would not waste energy today fighting to reclaim it.

Ninefingers turned to the younger and spat some words towards him which Osthryth did not catch. She raised Buidhe, the blade feeling heavy in her arm as blood seeped down her legs.

"The Uí Néill allowed bees to half-blind our ancestor, King Congall," Ninefingers declared. "Shall we half-blind - "

"You?" A voice finished. The younger Prince, so fast in his movements, was behind her and had seized her shoulders.

"I am not Uí Néill!" Osthryth protested. "I am - "

But before she could tell them what she was, Ninefingers had tackled her to the ground his long shadow casting towards the east. Osthryth fell heavily, the sand was hard and she felt her thighs impact on the sand.

"You fought with the Uí Néill, against the Norse!" Osthryth screamed in protest, knowing it was in vain. Ninefingers had a personal vendetta against her; she had lightened him to the sum of one finger. Now, he was going to do the same.

The younger prince was already spreading out her right arm, her sword arm, as Ninefingers sat on her stomach. Pain shot around her hips again as his weight compressed her organs.

"Eyes, or fingers," he mused, tormentingly, as Osthryth writhed under him. And then his hand went to her chest. A look of surprise crossed his features, then he tore away at her shirt that revealed her breasts. The coldness of the morning took the heat from them and her nipples stood taught against the air.

"Bean na Uí Néill!" Ninefingers laughed triumphantly. "An Uí Néill woman! Better still!"

Osthryth fought the man's stripping of her, but it was of no use. The younger prince said nothing, but held Osthryth's arms down as his brother pulled her legs apart. Osthryth protested and writhed her hips, as Ninefingers found the seaweed absorbing her blood. He made to rub at the bump at the top of her cunt, but when he did so, his hand became coated in viscous redness.

"Dirty bitch!" The prince bellowed in disgust, pushing her legs away and wiping his hand on her leg. He then brought a short knife to her throat.

"So, you brought on your curse so I would not touch you? Are you a witch?" He circled the knife by her throat.

"I am a witch," Osthryth confirmed, the words coming to her lips from nowhere. "And I am taking away the very light from the world." She endeavoured to strain her head in the direction of the sun.

It was getting darker still: Osthryth had noticed more of the sun had disappeared. She was terrified, not knowing what would happen if the sun did disappear. But she was not controlling it, and she could guess what would happen if she did not get away from the two Ulaid princes. And all this had not gone unnoticed by a figure at the bottom of the cliff path.

She made to pull away at Ninefingers' confusion but he wrestled her back to the strand and, grappling at it, he took a handful of sand, forcing it into her mouth.

Osthryth spluttered as Ninefingers undid his breeches. Already his cock was erect, its scarlet end shimmering with fluid in the failing light and he was breathing heavily, anticipating its use. Osthryth guessed too, but Ninefingers had her pressed close to the ground. The younger prince was still pinioning her arms, still silent as he watched his brother.

And use it got as he lay over her, forcing his hardness into her mouth, the sand making it raw as he thrust and thrust, like humping, but her mouth instead, his balls hitting her chin.

She tried not to gag as the hot end could take the stimulus no more, semen filling her mouth as she tried not to gag as it spilling down her throat. Finding some air, Osthryth bit on his flaccid cock, hard.

But, Ninefingers was off her now, screaming at the pain, his cock limp, still out of his breeches as he hauled her up to ger feet. Osthryth swallowed as more sand went dowb her throat and up her nose. She choked.

"Witch, you are going to die, unless you restore the sun!" He grabbed her by her short hair and twisted her head around.

"Never!" Osthryth spat back, and Ninefingers kicked her in the stomach. She fell onto the ground hitting her head.

"Come on!" Ninefingers growled to his brother. "Over there!"

A shout went up, too far away to be of any help to her, as it ran towards them. Osthryth looked past desperately, bitter liquid still dripping from tbe corner of her mouth as Ninefingers dragged her by the hair towards the sea. She squirmed and fought, but the younger Ulaid prince drew back his hand and slapped her around the face as she resisted as they dragged her into the cold water.

The rock around which Osthryth was now being bound had been uncovered as the tide had gone out, but now, as the sun dimmed further, the tide had come back in.

"Say your curses, witch!" Ninefingers growled, as he threw her against the rock, arms and legs spread back over the rock, her whole body exposed to the air and the sea. Which was rising.

Osthryth screamed. It was clear what was going to happen. And there was nothing she could do about it. She writhed, hoping the rush cords holding her could catch on the roughness of the slate rock stack, to loose her, before the sea came over her body, over her shoulders, over her head. Her scream clearly disturbed the Ulaid, for Ninefingers took her hair in his hands, smashing her head off the rock. It knocked her out, and when she came to, she saw, through hazy eyes, that someone had Buidhe and was fighting someone with it.

It was Constantine. In the increasing twilight, he lunged at one of the Ulaid, who dodged and thrust at them.

A wind blew around the beach, and, through her injured eye, Osthryth gazed to the sky. Only a slim crescent of light was now visible; Constantine, who had now abandoned Buidhe had thrown himself at the younger Ulaid Prince.

But Ninefingers was now looking into the heavens. Little by little, the light of the sun diminished. Ninefingers grabbed his younger brother by the shoulder and they both stumbled away in terror.

Osthryth opened her mouth and tried to scream, but the cold of the sea had stiffened her body and she gasped against the cold. Constantine loomed towards her, stumbling into the water towards her, but he too looked into the sky. But, he plunged on, reaching her.

"Osthryth!" he gasped, reaching in tbe near darkness for her hands, trying to find the twine which held her fast. "Osthryth!"

"Constantine!" she managed, her shoulder muscles weak at the strain of her body, as her body grew weak ang her leg muscles losing their strength. And then terror struck her. Water was now shoulder height, and Constantine stopped.

Around them, the sound of the sea birds diminished, and the whole landscape dropped to an unnatural dormancy.

Osthryth felt panic rise in her chest, and she tried to scream to him, but the salt water of the sea spashed into her face: Constantine ran through the water, and out onto the beach, glancing at the sky.

And, at the moment he reached the shore, the sun was destroyed.

Somehow, Osthryth found the strength to raise herself up on tiptoe. It was no use, she knew, for the waves were now up to her neck. This was the end.

Thoughts of her Uncle Aelfric andb Bebbanburg, of Beocca, comforting her after being in trouble, and of Uhtred, holding Seobhridht's head passed through her mind. When she met God, would she be able to justify her life? Was it worthwhile?

The water was close to her ears now, as she stood as tall as she could, head back so her nose was clear to breathe.

And, just as suddenly as it had vanished, the sun beamed in one long shaft over the water. Osthryth looked up to it.

A wave, larger than the last, washed over her head. Osthryth swallowed the saline liquid, trying to force her head up over it. It was no use. Memories swirled as the sun shot beams of light all over the northern sea. Under the waves, the black was illuminated before her eyes. Osthryth let her body slump, as she inhaled water into her lungs, to weak even to choke.

Was this death? Was this the might of the Lord bringing her forth to heaven to make her answer for her misdeeds, before condemning her to Lucifer's fires of hell?

Strong arms seized Osthryth's arms as her bonds were uncut. The light slowly began to be restored to the world as Domnall mac Aed Uí Néill, the exiled prince, carried Osthryth out of the water as the sun recovered its strength, her thin, drowned body held fast to him all the way back to Doire.

88888888

"What day is it?"

From a richly-linened in a sunlit room, Osthryth opened her eyes. For a long time, she looked at the oak beams above the bed, then moved. She wished she hadn't. There wasn't a part of her body that didn't feel in pain, from cracks around her lips, to her chest when she breathed. Even blinking was painful.

But Osthryth moved her head anyway at the sound of a creak of a chair. Domnall mac Aed leaned towards her.

"October 24th, if you really want to know," he said. "You pupils are missing you terribly."

Osthryth opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Whether it was because she didn't know what to say, or because she hadn't the energy, she did not know. She closed her eyes.

And awoke, after vivid dreams of the sun and an ebbing tide, of a rock and a returning tide. And water over her head.

"Are you with us?" It was Domna again. "27th October," he told Osthryth. "How do you feel?"

"Glad to be fourteen," Osthryth croaked.

Over the next few days she had visitors: the children; Domhnall, Muire, even Donnchada along with the servants. But not Flann Sinna. And not, noticeably, Constantine.

Muire was pleased to hear she wished to resume teaching, and she thanked her for Domnall.

"He was always the same; bringing home injured animals. Both my boys are the same," she smoothed her blue dress over her small bump. "This one too, maybe? While he has a furious side, he equally has a tender one." Then, Muire had leaned forward.

"Constantine?" She asked simply. Osthryth didn't need to know the context; it was plain they knew of her loss.

"I felt pain; I thought to bathe...it was so quick."

"I will overlook your use heathen medicine," Muire replied. "For many a Christian woman has had to respect the old knowledge. When you are ready to be a warrior again, he can see you then." Leaning forward, she whispered, "Men just don't understand - Constantine certainly didn't. Domhnall has spoken to him."

"I have tried to be chaste," Osthryth replied, earnestly. "He was just very - "

"Persuasive?" Muire laughed when Osthryth nodded. "He has a bond with you that cannot be broken: you saved his life; you saved Domhnall's against Ivarr the Boneless. You saved all of my children seceral days ago. The House of Àlpin is pleased to have you amongst its warriors." She leaned forward, "My father would be proud that an Angle such as yourself recognised my brother's kindness and have spent the subsequent years in lotal service to his line. And, had he seen any warrior so despoiled by his so-called allies, would have gone to challenge Cineál mac Conchobar himself - oh, don't move," Muire said kindly. "All of the warriors, even Donnchada, have begged the king to challenge Cineál, or his sons - for what they did was breaking the truce Flann agreed with him. But my husband will not allow it."

And he will allow Gormlaith, his own daughter, to be married into a family such as would do to her what Ninefingers had done to her. Was the ceasefire really that significant to the High King?

"You may resume teaching as soon as you feel well enough," Muire added. "The royal children have missed you. And, you are to have this." She handed over a sword, much worked, much polished, barely the blade she had won, at Tara.

"Buidhe!" Osthryth breathed. She was vaguely aware of Constantine using it to fight the Ulaid princes. And then Muire left and she had slept, and Domhnall had been to see her, praising her, his warrior still, for her bravery.

"Those princes will pay," he said, meaningfully. Then, told her they were expecting her in the stables just as soon as she was ready. "Constantine too," Domhnall added, pointedly, then leaned forward. "I hope this has taught you the value of chastity?"

"Yes, my Lord," Osthryth replied, then added, "He likes me to be close, or else - "

"He has been told that I will castrate him if he touches you again," Domhnall replied, grimly. "And a king in exile does not lightly make threats such as these to his heir." Osthryth nodded, gravely.

If only they could marry; she would be safe from Aelfric, and she would always be chaste. But, of course, Eira was to marry Domhnall, for succession was all: raise a warrior, build a dynasty, otherwise your throne was in danger.

In the end, it was two days later, two days before Samhain , that she met in Muire's chambers the children. Niall gave Osthryth a running hug and wrapped his little arms around her middle. It was quite far from the manners he was supposed to show. Muire chided him, telling his she was in pain after fighting.

"And we beat the Norse!" he replied, happily, before seeing his mother's sten face. Osthryth tried not to laugh - laughing hurt - when she saw the knees of his breeches: dirt-encrusted, as usual, from his habit of digging through the soil in search of worms or woodlice.

"But you said, Mairi!" Niall protested, failing to see where he had erred.

"We do not greet our injured heroes thus," his mother smiled, "for they need to heal. But, yes, Osthryth is to commence with your learning.

She half expected poor Anndra to open the door to them, as she led the royal school across the courtyard, Buidhe at hand. Mairi smiled at her, pleased to see her, but she could see from her eyes the same expression of emotion that Osthryth felt about the family who had adopted her: had she been in a different place, Osthryth's fate might have been hers. Osthryth smiled back through her bruised face. She was alive, and she would mend. There was nothing that she couldn't do when she was well, and she intended this to be by her lord's side.

The young monk apprentice showed the party into the script room and, once the young boys were busy writing the gospels out on recycled vellum in charge of the boys, he hed her to the manuscripts of letters. Clearly it was thought that her habit of viewing the missives was part of what she was there for.

"We are lucky the Norse did not get here," he said, lifting down the most recent volume for her. "All this would have gone." He glanced at her again, and added, "I remember you; I was fighting ten men away. Gosh," he exclaimed, "It was a tough section where we were."

A letter from the Lindisfarne monks to those at Iona had made its way there, to St. ColmCille's. It reported the usurper of Bebbanburg had been seen talking to Danes.

The usurper, Osthryth scoffed. Clearly, the monks at Lindisfarne relied on Aelfric and needed his money, so therefore wrote his propaganda.

Yet, he was still in league with the Danes, as another letter plaintively put, this time, coming from Culdees: Bebbanburg's lord supported two brothers with their incursions over the border into southern Pictland.

She examined the letter more closely as she followed the words, rereading the horror that had been communicated: Uhtred had stolen the pagan bride, sister of the new king of Cumbraland - a sub-king to these brothers - who was to marry Aelfric. He had been punished, though the letter did not say how.

Uhtred. Not in Wessex any more. Come north to challenge Aelfric.

Suddenly, her spirits rose. His cause was clearly true; he had never given up his dream of Bebbanburg, and that made Osthryth feel a warmth of happiness in her stomach.

There were more letters, saying more or less the same thing: news of Northumbria was always hotly received, for it gave an indication of whether lords were plotting expansion into neighbouring territories.

But, Northumbria was ruled by Danes, now. Osthryth closed her eyes and imagined the young man who had come to threaten Aelfric at Bebbanburg's gates. His features were indistinct, so it was unlikely she would recognise Uhtred on sight.

But, Osthryth was certain, she would know him, and a leaving-hunger gnawed in her stomach. She wanted to go to him, after all; the loyalty to her lord was not enough alone. All would be right when Osthryth had found Uhtred.

8888888

They were returning to Alba on the same night as they had left: All Saints' Day. That was the next day. Samhain, that day, would come and go, in a faithful marking of harvest offered to the dead, silent dinner, and doors locked and double-locked.

Osthryth made her way over to the stables that night, after bidding a farewell to the children - she had grown fond of them, especially little Niall and the capable, forthright Mairi, and suspected she may have to leave without notice when they crossed the sea to restore Domhnall to the thrones of the Gaeos and the Picts, to cobtinue Ceinid mac Alpin's line, to be the first king of all Alba.

She had gone that evening to the stables, and was grateful that no fuss had been made of her return. Taghd had taken her sword to sharpen, though it had not needed much to put an edge back on it, for it had returned from Muire as if the Sidhe had been responsible for its polishing.

Feargus had been packed off to collect food for them all, as they are in silence sitting in the straw of the warm stables, save the quiet hmmphing of the horses, and though Osthryth hoped it wasn't the case, it seemed like there was extra meat than usual on her platter.

Danes, Domhnall had said, confirming the monasterial letters, 2 brothers Erik and Siegfried, had incurred into Strathclyd. Poor inhabitants had fled and set up primitive traps, it had not slowed down the brothers, and they had incurred into Glaschau and across to Stirling, raiding as they went.

"Eochaid has done nothing to check this," Domhnall told his men. "We will win support if we can repel these Danes. Now is the best tine to attack, though winter us upon us. They will never expect us to be upon them after Samhain."

Later, once ale had been drunk and the men had listed off to sleep, Domhnall took Osthryth aside, to the outbuilding where he sometimes slept, so they were quite alone.

"You may stay, Osthryth," Domhnall said, raising an arm as if to clap her on the shoulder, but then stopped, as if conscious of his phtsical touch. " Muire has a place for you here." Osthryth's eyes widened.

"Oh, no, my lord!" She protested. "I would return to Alba; I would be at your side! Have I shamed you such that you do not want me?" And, she could only gain wealth to get to Wessex by sharing silver as spoils of war, preferably that of the Danish brothers.

"Shamed?" Domhnall echoed. "You have not shamed me! Dear girl, you have borne this braver than any man I know!" He looked into her eyes, as she turned away, and hevraised his hand to tilt her chin back to for him to look at her. "I would see you safe."

"I will never marry," Osthryth protested, definitely.

"Osthryth, I want you by my side; you are an outatanding warrior, far better than many men. But, there are dangers in Alba."

"How can there be dangers with you as my king?" Osthryth asked, quietly. She felt her heart sink: he was trying to release her from his service, of that she was sure." Domhnall was noble, valiant and, above all, monstrously ambitious. He would not chance his position as king, and she had shown, through her sex that she was more liability to him than an asset.

Then, he did sonething she did not expect. Raising her left arm, he drew his palm to his mouth, pressing his lips to it. Then, just as suddenly, Domhnall stepped away, dropping her hand as if it were ice. Osthryth stepped towards him, kissing him on the mouth. He pushed her away, hands on her shoulders. She would beg, if necessary.

Domhnall took her hands.

"Osthryth, I would show you the greatest love that a man would give to you, and I am showing it. You are a child still; choose a husband from the warriors and I will arrange it. Choose Domnall, now he has decided to renounce his father's throne and come with us."

Osthryth shuddered. Domnall as a husband? He was more disagreeable than Constantine, even if he had rescued her, she didn't wholly trust him.

"Lord king -"

"It can never be, Osthryth." He looked away, as if his will was different than his words. "I take a wife back with me."

"If you marry me, you could continue to be with Eira," Osthryth suggested, quietly. She had been about to say "Finnolai" and her mind wondered where he was, now he had escaped and was free, and she hoped, maybe the warrior, her best friend, had made his way back to Alba to wait for Domhnall. Please do not let him be a wandering spirit tonight, she added, silently.

"And I could continue to be a soldier."

"And what about a dynasty...children?" asked Domhnall.

"We could have children," she insisted. But Domhmall pushed her away.

"You are nothing - no-one - "

"I am - " Aedre of Bebbanburg, Osthryth he was about to say, and if they married, he could take the throne of Bebbanburg, and all lands to the Roman wall, as was his grandfathet's ambition. But, before she could say anything, Domhnall put a hand to her mouth. When she had fallen silent, he dropped it.

"I love you, Domnhall mac Caustin," Osthryth declared. "Not the love of a man and a woman, but the love of a warrior and lord..."

She knelt, on both knees, on the straw in the dim lantern-light. Domhnall knelt too.

"You are..." He took her hair in his hand, it was growing back. "You could be content with one of my men if not Domnall? Feargus? Taghd?"

Osthryth closed her eyes, as they knelt together, picturing both. Feargus, strong and broad, a thick head of hair, dark russet red, stoic, reliable, trustworthy; Taghd, tall fair haired and strong, like a branch of willow, soulful, strung with faith and belief: they had enacted a handfast at Tara, after all.

"I just want to be your warrior, Lord. I will fight, Lord Domnhall."

"You will fight," he confirmed. "I need the best around me this day." And then he took Osthryth in his arms, kissing her deeply, before leaning past her face, whispering in her ear.

"You would be in great danger if I were to take you for a wife, no matter who you were, and - "

A noise outside, rattling, banging. The candles guttered in the lanterns and went out.

The Sidhe. It was Samhain, after all, Osthryth knew. She got to her feet, hand on her sword. Domhnall put his hand on hers, to stay her unsheathing of it.

"Stay still...stay here," he instructed, striding to the door, which banged open just before he reached it. The noises hammered through the stables, like horses, huge horses, galloping, followed by a noise, like a keening, the sound the Eireann women made when King Aed was buried, at Ard Marcha.

Osthryth stood, listening as the stables were ransacked: hammerings and bangs, a wibd and tbe keening. What was it?

"They seek someone," Domhnall said, striding over to her.

"The Uí Néill?"

"The Sidhe."

Why? Though Osthryth.

"Whether it is the Uí Néill or the sidhe, they will not find us. And tomorrow, we go back to Alba, to fight for my throne." Domhnall explained.

"But, if it is not the Sidhe..." Osthryth protested, then she crumpled. The horror of what she had suffered, discrete images, swam in pieces through her mind.

"The door is barred," Domhall said, pulling her close to him. Osthryth. could feel his heart beating through his jerkin. will remain awake. "Nothing can get to you if I am here, Osthryth Lackland."

He sat down in the straw, leaning back against the stall, grey eyes like his father willing her to sit by him. Behind them, a mare snorted in her sleep at the movement of the oak panels as Domnhall raised his arm, inviting her close.

That night Osthryth slept in the arms of a king. In the morning, before the sun had risen she was riding next to two on the shore of the Foyle, where once she hunted squid for their ink and pagans for potions.

It was not yet dawn. Boats, prearranged to take advantage of the high tide of the lough, were rowing in, their hazy outlines picked put by the pre-dawn light.

They passed the rock next to where she had been tied by Ninefingers, around which the coracles were piloting. Osthryth could feel her chest swelling with brine as the waters engulfed her and she relived again the cold panic of helplessness, and death approaching with every incoming wave.

It was only when Constantine took her bridle, that she was aware their journey was over and she was grippng the reins tightly. She was shaking and, reluctantly, allowed the prince to help her down.

Six boarded two coracles belonging to the monks of Rathlin: Osthryth and Constantine with Taghd in one; Domhnall with Domnall and Feargus in another. Should one boat sink, the other held a man who could be king.

Osthryth held the side of the boat, fighting visions of her drowning as they began their risky journey across the northern sea and to Iona, where Domhnall, with his cousins Constantine and the dispossessed Domnall by his side, would fight to regain the thone of his family, Àlpin.

88888888

St. John's Eve, 904

"Tell me the story of the princess mama!" Begged Aedre, holding up her hand to Osthryth. She smiled down to the child, who was lying, eyes lighted up, mind filled with sounds of the far-off festivities.

Osthryth eased herself onto the silk coverlet as the flame-coloured hair of her adopted daughter spilled out onto the pillow and she stroked Aedre's temples with the backs of her fingers, a trick which soothed the girl.

"There was once a princess," she began.

"I love this story!" Aedre opened her bright blue eyes and looked at her mother.

"I know, beautiful," Osthryth sighed, trying to keep her voice low. "And she lived in a castle by a wild sea..."

Soon, the rhythm of the story began its soporific result, yet Aedre was resisting sleep.

"...the hero of the story, the priest, guarded the crypt in which the bones of all the saints of the realm lay. His was a studious, job, yet he was as bravevas any warrior, held a sword like any warrior and fought. Vicious pirates often came to raid, but could not breach the walls of tbe fortress, and - "

"The Norse?" asked a tiny voice.

"Danes," Osthryth confirmed, withdrawing her hand. Maybe her touch was disturbing Aedre.

"What are Danes?"

"Like the Norse." Osthryth sighed, listening to the distant shouts and laughter of people enjoying themselves far away. The heathen would be there; Ula would be there, plying her knowledge - good knowledge, which worked - but was against the law.

Osthryth looked across to Aedre, whose eyes were determinedly open.

"Sit up, my darling," Osthryth said, moving her pillow up the polished oak bedframe. Nothing had ever been too good for Aedre, in Constantine's eyes, and now Mairi had died, he took little interest in his children, besides Cellach and Indulf, and Domhnall's eldest, MaelColm, all fighting-age boys.

"You are a Dane," Osthryth told her, hesitatingly. "Your grandfather ruled vast areas of land which once belonged to my family. He was a great warrior - " Osthryth paused, considering her choice of words, "he was just, and true, he took pity on the weak and was fair minded. Your mother was his only daughter - "

" - and I am your only daughter," Aedre pressed, her cornflower-blue eyes twinkling at Osthryth. "You have often said it."

I have often said it to Constantine, Osthtyth thought, in Gaelish, as he reminds me of my requirement of espionage for your keep. And you understand me, as well as the Anglish I speak to you, and the Cymric if the servants and the Danish the two slaves speak to you, though they are Norse, and it is the same tongue. You truly are a wonder.

"I am your mother, yes," Osthryth nodded. "But the lady who carried you, in her body as you grew was a brave fierce Danish lady with hair the colour of fire."

"Like mine." She held out her hair in her fingers. "And Constantine is my father - he said so." And then Aedre threw herself at Osthryth fiercely, as if she never wanted to let her go, before pulling her down next to her and demanding the story of the cousins' war: Ecgfrith the Angle and Breidi the Pict at Dun Nechtain, saying that oft-repeated epithet that, "No Angle or Saxon will ever take Alba, willl they, Mamma?"

It was too soon for her to understand, Osthryth told herself, as Aedre settled, finally, into a slow, rhythmical sighing. She was too young to know.

But time had passed too quickly. She should write to Beocca. The last she heard of his whereabouts, the elderly priest, Aedre's father, had been ministering in Wessex and travelling from parish to parish following Alfred's death and Aelswith's expulsion of him from the palace.

She did not want the husband of a Dane, even the good and true man Beocca was, to be in any way involved in decisions. No, Osthryth knew, from a letter Beocca had written to a monk he knew at Culdees, Aethelhelm had taken his place, Aethelhelm, whose daughter had usurped Edward's first wife, for the interest of the money he could bring to Wessex's crown.

And despite all of that, Osthryth had gleaned, from Beocca's missive, not one phrase, not one sentence spoke of anger or resentment, just pity and regret for the future of Wessex, whose political decisions were now being made not by wisdom, but money.

He should be made into a saint, Osthryth thought. He didn't make rain stop, or start, or bring an abbess back to life, or repel a wind or anything that makes men saints. But then, he never was truly in the favour of Alfred, especially after her brother appeared in Wessex. Deeds, however minor, needed to be recorded, but what of a priest who had calmed a mad Danish woman, out of her wits for the abuse she had suffered at the hands of other Danes? What of the peace he had bestowed on Alfred's greatest warrior? What of the good he had done, every day, inch by inch, second by second.

Saint Beocca, the man who knew the little things mattered to the lives of ordinary people. He had been like a father to her, as Aedre, and to Uhtred she had often heard him say so to Finan, when they thought they were alone.

She should write back to Beocca, Osthryth thought, as she held Aedre, his daughter, in her arms. But what to tell him when he did not know his daughter lived.

Nearly five years old as she was, and ever month, every year, it was more and more difficult to know what to say.

She should travel with Aedre - she should show him his daughter, her life born from Thyra's death. But Osthryth was afraid; she was a coward. Telling Beocca she lived, lived with Constantine in Alba caring for his daughter: it would take a day, if not less, for Uhtred to find out. And she did not want Uhtred to know her for, by now, after her foolish telling of it to Finan, he was bound to know.

August 904

The opportunity came when August brought victory to Constantine. He had refused her to fight with the army against the Norse at Strathcarron, though she accompanied him, with Aedre. The battle was bitter, and many Picts and Gaels fell to the Norse. However, many more Norse fell, as did their leader Ivarr Ivarrson, causing the Norse to leave Alba.

But, Osthryth's fears came true, despite her wishing that the facts did not speak for themselves: Uhtred bargained for land with Constantine, who travelled down to the Roman wall, deep into Northumbria.

Taking Cellach as an agreed hostage again - the prince would be fed and educated as long as Constantine did not make war to reclaim Northumbria to the wall - Uhtred then sided with Ivarrson, and had had to retreat. Osthryth had feared for Cellach, but Constantine told Osthryth he was safe.

While Uhtred plotted to reclaim Ecgfrith's lost lands to Dun Edinn, Constantine also had land ambitions, and if he could expand Pictland to beyond the Roman wall then he would fo so.

Domnall, who had also fought the battle at Strathcarron next to his cousin, had also told her of Donnchada's treachery against Flann Sinna, who had sacked Kells as part of an agreent with the Ulaid. Fifteen years after leaving Eireann, abd this was the first time Osthryth had seen him look pained for his homeland.

She liked Domnall, and Osthryth often told herself that she could have married him and been an exiled Princess, despite their disastrous start.

Had she had done so in Doire, Osthruth knew, Domhnall and Constantine would still have found out about the ransom her uncle offered in any case. Osthryth always checked herself by this and knew Domhnall would have annulled their marriage and handed her over to Aelfric. Or Kjartan. Which is why she had run.

Domnall was another prince who had never forgiven her for leaving so suddenly. Yet, he had taken her in his arms and had refused to leave her bedside on thevday of the eclipse, not until she had awoken and Muire had assessed her abuse at the hands of the Ulaid, and her drowning under the dying sun.

He had insisted on royal quarters for her, and when Flann had refused, had her taken to his own before petitioning both Domhnall amd Donnchada to claim apology from King Cineál for the wrong his sons had done her and dissolve the betrothal of Gormlaith to his younger son. If anyone embodied the Christian virtues of humility and justice it was Domnall mac Aed Uí Néill.

"Donnchada tried to tell Flann of the Ulaid," he told Osthryth sadly one night. "But his father would have none of it. He trusted Cineál mac Conchobar too much, and the Northern Uí Neíll knew how it would end. Even Donnchada in the end."

"At least Gormlaith is happy now."

"Gormlaith," Domnall smiled, passing over a stone beaker of uisge-beatha. The spirit warmed Osthryth's chest, and she closed her eyes momentarily in the warmth of the room. "Married to Niall Glundubh now," he mused.

Little Niall, Domnall's young brother, now twenty nine, with the implacable fairness of his line. Gormlaith, sorry and maltreated princess, was now his wife, having been abandoned by not only the younger Ulaid prince - who had himself eventually been sold into slavery for the shame of taking a mistress by Ninefingers, his brother, a mistress set up by the Uí Néill - but also returned to Flann Sinna having been barren in her marriage to the King of Munster.

Osthryth often wondered how the little boys had grown up in their palace at Doire after she's left, and wondered, at a fancy, whether Gormlaith, older than her third husband by nearly ten years, spent her time washing the mud put of the knees of his breeches.

"We may not have liked it, but Flann and Cineal's starvation war worked," Domnall continued. "The Norse could not fight back, few new Norse would settle in hostlile land, and now, with Constantine's success, they will not stop in Alba."

"Wessex," Osthryth answered Domnall's next question before he asked it, "Or the west coast of Northumberland: Cumbraland, or Mercia. Cnut will welcome them in York as exiles."

"Then there will be war in Englaland soon," Domnall said. "I will co-ordinate Constantine's fleet, or army, whichever he chooses.

And, before that war, Osthryth decided, she must take Aedre to see her father.

88888888

September 904

"You don't like the water." There was concern on Aedre's tiny features. Osthryth turned away from the glass-like strait between Dunnottar and Culdees.

"I like it well enough," she replied, trying not to catch Ceinid's eye.

A month after her first conversation with Aedre and was now heading out of the black-watered Dee and into the north sea.

They would be passing Lindisfarne and Bebbanburg, at a distance far enough away that her uncle's army would not intercept them and demand a fee.

But, there was a lot of water between Lindisfarne and Cent, around which they must sail to get to Hamptun, then up towards Winchester, and plenty of opportunity for attack by anyone. And Osthryth was not about to admit to anyone, not least Aedre, that water: river, sea or lake, was the only thing that made her feel helpless and cowardly.

"What did the West Saxons know of us?" Constantine had asked her, the night before she left. It was clear from his demeanour, from his expression, the tone of his voice, that he feared she would not return. To be sure, he had taken all but the barest amount of silver from her and had told her Cinead would guard them.

Ceinid was also under orders to bring them back, Osthryth was certain, but she had no intention of staying in Wessex, not least with Edward Rex on the throne.

"They know little: very few knew of me. I could have been safe in Wessex for longer, for much longer." Had I not made the mistake of telling Uhtred's best friend that I was his sister, Osthryth added, silently.

"Yet, you fled, with Aedre, to me?" Constantine reminded her, grimly. In tbe throne-room that evening, he was not sitting, but looking out of the window, at the late summer sun on the Dee, refusing to meet Osthryth's eye.

"To here, the only place I could consider my home. Wessex is not home. And few in the Saxon kingdoms consider you at all." Constantine turned, looking impassive.

"That will be their mistake. One day. When the Cymric, the Britons, remember it was the Sais who invaded, long before the Norse and Danes. For now, we must contain the Norse beyond the wall, to prevent their incursions, prevent their return." Constantine turned away.

"Do you miss Domhnall?" Osthryth asked suddenly.

"Yes," Constantine replied, "We were the same, alone, exiled. Like Domnall. Domhnall made some bitter choices to regain the throne again. You were there."

"Giric."

"Giric." Constantine returned. "Osthryth, why did you return if you were going to go back?" His eyes were full of hurt, and for once he did not try to force himself on her for comfort.

Why had she? Alfred had died, yes. Thyra had run, and she had followed. She had been so close before, when she had been with Uhtred carrying out a faux raid into Pictland.

"Because I do not believe you will sell me to Aelfric now," Osthryth replied. "I am no longer worth anything to him."

And, because she missed the north. She could stand no longer in a place of ritual, so far removed from Cuthbert's faith, so driven on schedule that there was no place for an individual to directly challenge themselves on God's might.

Her choice had come when Osthryth had been her choice remove yet another germ from her body - no, not a germ. This was a child, and she had screamed to the air when the Cymric healer had pulled out the unwanted life This time, she had grown gravely ill; she had lost a deal of blood. Finan had nursed her through: dear Finan, who knew why she suffered, what she had done, and could not wholly trust it was not his own.

She had failed to return to Edward's side, and broken her oath as his warrior. Although, now Edward was no longer the aethling. He was the king. He would have had no more use for her anyway.

But, more than that, she had truly known her brother, his divided loyalty, his bravery, the love his men showed him. He had shown he could not serve Alfred on the king's terms, but he did, and felt the king owed him more for his service. He had taken the detestible Aethelflaed as his lover, yet sworn to Edward as Rex.

The more she knew of Uhtred the more she despised him. The brother she had dreamed of all those years ago, standing before Bebbanburg's gates, Seobhridht's head clasped in his hand, never had been. He was a myth, a story, he was just a dream.

"Your will was to be with your brother," Constantine conceded, though Osthruth noted now, as salt water from the North Sea whipped her face, he had never denied she had been part of a bargain with Aelfric. "I have met Uhtred; I admire him," Constantine had said.

"I do not." But that was not entirely true. She did respect all he had achieved, but as a person? No. He was not what a brother would be. She had never felt more at home than in the company of the royal Gaels, the house of Àlpin.

She had stood between Finan and Uhtred on Constantine's meeting with Ragnar Ragnarsson, south of Dùn Edinn all those years go, seeing Mairi's clever eyes in Cellach, who so resembled his father.

Would she have run to his side? Would have stood by him if Ragnar had attacked...if Uhtred and Finan had attacked? He was, even now as a man the stubborn, demanding boy she knew, those characteristics had matured into strategic cunning and forthright leadership, yet she bought Aedre's comfortable life, and Constantine ever treated her as the servant she had always been to him, a thing to be used at his will.

And it had been to him, at the risk of her own life that she had run; for the same reason she had run from Dunnottar and her life in the court of Domhnall: she had been afraid. Not afraid in the same way as she had been when she realised King Domhnall knew her identity, and had been terrified he would trade her back to Aelfric.

No, this was worse terror. In short, she was ashamed he was her brother, that he had taken up with Aethelflaed, had Wessex and Mercian interests when he should have his eye only on Bebbanburg.

Once she had admitted she was his sister to Finan, in a moment of weakness, he would undoubtedly have told his Edward who she was to him.

She hated him, hated what he was. Not a noble, loyal saxon lord, to whom she could run, confide, offer loyalty and strength to regain their home that he so badly desired.

Instead, his slave-life in the house of Ragnar the Fearless, their father's killer had shaped him into the man, a man whose loyalties were so deeply divided neither Danes nor Saxons could anticipate his loyalties, neither, Osthryth suspected, could her brother himself. He had married for love into the kin of Ivarr the Boneless, yet this served a purpose of striking at Aelfric, their uncle. Yet, his Saxon ties had bound him to Alfred and his family, tighter ever than to Bebbanburg.

She had run because she despised the man he was, and did not care whether he lived or died. Any information she had Constantine could have to further his claim to Northumbria up to the Roman wall, or further into Northumbria - she didn't care. Besides, she was valueless to Aelfric now.

Osthryth Lackland would cut her links Uhtred of Bebbanburg: he was no longer her brother. He was now, with the agreement she had made with Constantine to spy against Wessex, her enemy.

And it would begin, when she returned - just south of Strathclyde - it would begin in Cumbraland, with King Guthred. For Constantine had told her so: King Guthred held the key to the lands in the south, and Osthryth: she was the lock into which the King of Cumbraland would fit.


End file.
